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no-droids · 4 years

Text

The Secret

Pairing: Anakin Skywalker/Reader

Word Count: 4.2K

Rating: Explicit

Summary: On a dark and dreary night, Anakin tries to see if he can influence your dreams.

A/N: idk what in the hell this even is tbh I just started writing it two days ago idk what happened this is some inception shit but not the crazy ass mind bending plot twist part at the very end of inception but like just the cool middle part where you kinda get what’s sorta going on but not really okay anyways I gotta go

Warnings: There are DUBCON/NONCON ELEMENTS to this, smut/oral sex, a splash of m/m (sorta?), dark Anakin uses the force to mess with your dreams without your knowledge or consent so please read at your own discretion

***

Anakin knows it’s wrong.

It’s the middle of the night on a moon he never bothered learning the name of and Anakin knows it’s wrong when his eyes shift over to you for the fifth time in the past minute. Curled up with your back to him and the crackling firelight illuminating this tiny little cave, breathing soft and quiet through your nose as you sleep, the wind roaring monstrously outside. Anakin acknowledges it—the moral impropriety of even sitting here thinking about things he shouldn’t be with you so close by. It’s wrong, no getting around it.

But there’s also something inside him that… wants the wrongness.

He likes it. Anakin likes having secrets, he likes breaking rules even when nobody is consciously here to witness it. It makes him feel alive in a way that battlefields just can’t anymore, not after two years of constant conflict where the only enemies to feel his wrath have been comprised of nuts and bolts, their robotic cries never leaving him with any satisfaction anymore. At the start of the Clone Wars, sure, it was a thrill to slice through voice boxes and body parts, even if they were mechanical. But the droids aren’t afraid of death, they’re just programmed to stay alive. It’s like killing large, dumb swarms of bugs—it needs to be done for the common good but there’s never any true fulfillment in it anymore, it just feels like a task to be completed instead of an earnest, hard-earned goal.

He’s also been given direct permission to do it. He’s even been ordered to carry out enormous droid massacres on behalf of the Republic, but that’s the thing. Anakin isn’t looking for permission, see, it takes away half the thrill.

No, he wants to feel wrong. He wants to wonder if he shouldn’t have. He wants the quiet guilt, the sparkle of holding a secret he’ll never breathe a word about, the addictive power trip from having real influence over something, something equally as real.

Technically, Anakin is supposed to be on lookout right now. He’s meant to stay awake and patrol the perimeter of the cave for enemy combatants, but he doesn’t even bother pretending to be diligent when it’s just you two here. It’s not necessary. He’d be able to sense another lifeform miles away in this secluded, barren wasteland; there’s no threat to be found right now. He can keep warm by the crackling firelight in this cave, sheltered from the dust storm that spontaneously broke out a few hours ago. He can stay awake without moving a muscle and listen to your slow breathing all night long, letting it fill him with shameful desires he spends the daylight hours fighting and suppressing.

He silently flicks his gaze over to you once more, blinking as he studies you. He can sense your mind becoming creative in its slumber, beginning to swirl into dreamlike possibilities around yourself, about to choose a path for your consciousness to follow tonight. Yes, this is what he’s waiting for. He can’t force you to dream—that’s beyond his expertise as a Jedi. But if he finds himself in the right place at the right time, he can certainly try his best to… give you a suggestion.

The wind whistles outside and the fire pops quietly and you continue to breathe. In, and out. In, and out.

Anakin closes his eyes, and begins.

He first maps your body with the Force, trying to understand it on a deeper level. Gauge it—its proportions, its ambience, the thrumming lifeforce flowing through your veins even as you sleep. He has to be careful—as a fellow Knight, there’s no guarantee you won’t immediately be able to spot him exploring your energy in this way, there’s nothing to stop you from suddenly rolling over and asking just what exactly he thinks he’s doing.

But Anakin is patient. It’s one of the only times he can remember truly exercising that untapped potential inside him, perfectly content to allow you to drift while he works to find his bearings with you. Minds are complex, especially when they’re unconscious. They’re finicky and never stay in the same spot for long—it’s not like they evade, necessarily, but instead, they just… float around. Pulsing. In and out of existence, hiding behind and under immovable things, no rhyme or reason for it, vanishing into uncertainty and nothingness as soon as he thinks he’s found it. Like trying to find a microscopic air pocket in the depths of a pitch black ocean. He’s not losing any oxygen by existing right at the edges of your sleep, but it takes hard concentration to stay here, hidden, not allowing himself to slip. He’s looking, he’s looking… but he soon realizes he just needs to wait longer. He needs to wait until you float your way back around to him, until you present the opening yourself.

So Anakin waits.

And waits…

And then suddenly—

—There. He locks onto a flicker in the Force and holds, finally isolating and breaching the surface of your inner subconscious. Anakin smiles softly, a bead of sweat slowly dripping down his temple at the effort it took to locate you without alerting you of his presence. There you are. Maker, it sure is pretty in here, isn't it? He has you, he’s cradling the buried, hidden, most fragile part of your soul as you slumber, not knowing any better.

His heart thumps with excitement even though he’s barely done anything yet. To someone without sensitivity to the Force, they might just think the both of you are asleep right now. Just the two of you sitting still in this relatively small space, eyes closed, neither of you are touching, nobody has said anything or made any substantial movements in hours, nothing has changed in this world. All of it is existing in another plane, a place most people wouldn’t be able to recognize unless someone informed them of its existence, and even then, it would be beyond understanding.

But he has you now. He’s there, and he’s not going anywhere. He can allow his focus to dip just slightly, knowing your mind will pull him along through the comatose current. He senses you already working through the beginning whispers of dreams, but they’re not the kind people can ever remember. These aren’t formed, there’s no substance to them—it’s just pure, abstract dreamspace for your mind to drift through while you slumber.

Finding your true consciousness through all the murky, shapeless slumber was the test in skill. Now comes the luck.

Very carefully, without arousing any suspicion or drawing undue attention to himself, Anakin begins to drag the tip of his tongue against the back of his teeth. He doesn’t open his mouth, he doesn’t move a single muscle outwardly—he just lets his tongue begin to flitter around slowly in its enclosed cavern as he breathes, making the movements as soft and hypnotic as he can, matching the aimless way you’re carrying your mind and his shadow through the darkness.

He’s tried this before. Once or twice, with a pretty Ambassador he was tasked with protecting for a few months at the start of the Clone Wars, but the results were always less than ideal. He could never seamlessly transfer his desires through her consciousness before she awoke, perhaps because she wasn’t Force sensitive. The dream would either never happen, or he would push too hard and it’d turn into a rabid nightmare that fractured her thoughts and made her terrified to close her eyes for weeks. Not this time, though, Anakin isn’t going to allow it. Not with you, not after all the unprecedented effort it took to even just get himself here.

He finds a bit more passion to put into his movements, his jaw beginning to work with more purpose. Stars, he wants this to work, and while it’s probable that there’s an easier way to accomplish it, this isn’t something the Academy trains for. There’s only so much he can do except just be patient and giving with his soft, muted thoughts, urging you to make use of them without ever saying them aloud.

And suddenly, like the dark waves of your sleep decide to illuminate for him all on their own, your subconscious mind responds to the gentle stimulus. It carefully reaches out and studies the suggestion he’s silently offering, having spent what feels like an eternity trying to entice your rawest, most fundamental being into going somewhere it normally wouldn’t go, all without letting you know he’s even there.

His tongue is still moving. With purpose, with a specific intent in mind, Anakin allows his head to slowly fall back as he lifts his chin up towards it, wanting it more and more the longer you take to consider it, as if your mind is actively trying to tease him by playing hard to get. He can feel you right there, feel you thinking about it, and the whole thing is almost like some elaborate courting ritual while he waits with bated breath for you to decide whether or not to humor him.

But then, just when Anakin fears you may be too strong to be swayed, too powerful in the Force to be tempted by an outside source, you abruptly snatch the idea from him and start to run with it.

Suddenly parts of your spirit begin illuminating that should be dormant right now, and Anakin follows you, wherever you’re leading him. He knows none of this is necessarily intentional on your behalf—nobody can consciously pick and choose their dreams, not even Jedi. But this endeavor proves that it’s absolutely possible to subtly inspire them in each other, regardless of the morality behind it.

The wind continues to howl outside the cave and remind him that an entire universe still exists beyond your beautifully soporose mind, but the dreamscape gradually begins unfolding around him without any further prompting, requiring nothing more than what he’s already provided. Anakin’s tongue continues to simulate and suggest regardless, only now he feels the ghost of it beginning to materialize somewhere else besides the roof of his mouth, the sensations appearing before the images can be conjured to fill in the gaps. His hands suddenly tighten on his thighs at the soft, enticing feeling beginning to take root in you.

And oh. It’s… good. It feels different when his own body isn’t really the target of the stimulation, when he’s doing nothing more than simply experiencing it vicariously. Anakin supposes he could’ve bypassed all this effort, just aimed the pleasure more directly from the very beginning instead of working to inspire and coax it out of your own consciousness, but that was never his intention and it misses the point entirely. Where’s the challenge in it? The finesse is lost, it doesn’t appeal to him. It’s brash and brutish and not his style. No, this is what he wanted. He wanted to get just close enough to plant the most basic, fundamental idea in your head and then witness the rest of it all play out as a phantom passenger. Step back, strap in, and see how you kindle and manipulate the desire yourself, exactly the way you want it.

Anakin starts to breathe a little heavier through his nose, shoulders tense as he works to ride the slow swelling of your own prolonged pleasure with you, not knowing if or when it’s going to peak. He’s never made it this far before, he has no idea what to expect. Your consciousness does all the heavy lifting for him, your floor muscles move and contract without him needing to do anything to encourage it, the dream he seeded now completely taking over and whisking you both away.

But then… then suddenly Anakin doesn’t understand. Because yes, your mind works exactly the way he hoped it would—everything goes the incredibly precise direction he intended, and yet the destination is somehow… here? Back at the very beginning?

You dream of a cave. It’s exactly the same as the one you’re both silently holed up in for the night, and no new faces have appeared. If Anakin fluttered his eyes open at this specific moment, absolutely nothing around him would change. Except, perhaps, the subtle glow around everything—the watery way the air seems to be moving, as if it can’t decide whether it wants to exist or not so it strangely succeeds in doing both at the same time. He’s not really here—at least, he doesn’t think he is, he’s just seated on the dirt floor, appearing as nothing more than an invisible witness to it.

No. No, actually, he takes that back, he… is here. It takes him a moment to see the full picture as you’re still putting the puzzle pieces together, but… that’s him. A projection of himself at least, looking only slightly different but recognizable enough. Dark robes, robotic right arm, steady gaze.

But where are you? Anakin looks around the empty cave, still trying to understand how you’re painting this, his conscious mind moving much more rapidly than your own abstract one and yet also somehow taking so much longer to catch up to you. You’re not here. Why aren’t you here? He’s getting stuck on the details, he knows he’s lagging behind.

It takes a moment longer. Just one, before Anakin suddenly realizes that… he’s not just an invisible witness, is he?

He looks back down to see his own head now buried between his thighs.

But they’re not his thighs, not really. They’re yours. He’s just seeing everything from your point of view, feeling everything you’re feeling from the small little space he’s occupying in your mind.

At this point, Anakin needs to anchor. He feels himself—his real self, the one currently stuck in a cave in the midst of an unexpected dust storm—curl inwards and clamp his legs together. This will work. If he focuses enough to pinpoint the way his knees feel pressed tight together, he can have a tether to separate himself from your dream, the way yours are currently… wide open. This is all too similar to your true surroundings—he didn’t expect this, he doesn’t want to get lost.

And yet… Maker, it feels good. His long curls feel so soft in your hands, his tongue drags slow magic between your legs. When Anakin first suggested the idea to you, he didn’t think you’d assign the role back to him. He assumed you had someone else in mind, somewhere else you wished to be besides this dull, dreary setting. He gave you just an inkling of a prompt, and this is what the most creative part of your mind created. Something he could be doing at this exact moment, if only he’d known you’d be interested.

Then again, Anakin thinks, you may have just recognized him subconsciously. You may have attached him to the idea already, if only because he was the truest originator of it. But it doesn’t matter now, he can’t process such complex thoughts while maintaining the suspended mental state he’s in—he feels like he’ll either completely fall into it or out of it if he tries.

But as your muscles continue to work and your pleasure continues to build, it becomes harder and harder to separate where he is in relation to you. Anakin clenches his legs tighter together as you open yours wider apart, the dream gaining more strength as it develops. Stars, it’s—it’s—

Anakin starts to lose it and he needs to tug on that tether to his surroundings again, but it’s way more difficult than it should be to recognize himself. His calloused fingers on his left hand tremble as he reaches up and uses them to cover his face, biting his tongue to stop the low rumbles of ecstasy that want to claw their way out of his throat. Maker, this feels so… different from the build he knows. He thought—if he was successful—that he’d be able to handle it as silently and stoically as he’s able to handle his own pleasure, but this is something else entirely. Why does it feel so… so spectacular? Maker, he never realized the sensation was all that different on the inside, much less that he was actually missing out by having a dick between his legs.

But then suddenly there’s a pause, a break in the way you’ve been rhythmically squeezing and flexing your body for him.

The dream adapts to it. Anakin looks down between your open thighs just in time to see himself pulling away from your warmth, putting two fingers in his mouth, before slowly easing his hand back down between them.

No, he thinks, a bright flare of panic sparking inside him as he immediately snatches and yanks the tether to reality, popping his eyes open and pulling away from your mind entirely, oh no—wait, that’s not what I—

But see. That’s the thing about being so meticulous about conjuring something that doesn’t actually exist. Once his brilliant creation decides to backfire on him—a fool-proof way to escape it doesn’t actually exist either.

He… he can’t wake up. No matter how much his body struggles backwards on the dirt floor of the cave, how wide he can feel his eyes are right now, how excruciatingly aware he is that none of this is real, none of this is actually happening to him, he’s caught in the dream he planted and you’re hauling him along for the ride. The closest he can describe it is like having footage play in one eye while the other can see perfectly fine. He knows where the line that separates reality is, but he can’t escape your consciousness’s crushing gravitational pull; it’s too massive and overwhelming now, he can’t gain enough velocity to get home. Real life exists but only through a window, and being stuck on the other side like this—knowing he’s dreaming but not being able to jolt awake when he’s very ready to leave—is suddenly more terrifying than any nightmare Anakin has ever experienced.

It also has unintended consequences. Clinging so desperately to his own body has made him completely aware of it in the purgatory he’s now trapped himself in, but the pleasure is still there so the source of the stimulation is still there. They’re not your thighs anymore, they’re his thighs again. But that’s also still him between his legs, continuing to ease his fingers forwards.

He keeps retreating back and away from them no matter what, but there’s nothing more he can do.

Anakin helplessly watches on as his own fingers slowly disappear up inside himself, and his eyes instantly lose focus and his jaw goes slack as he feels it the way you would. They’re not real, so there’s no pain, no true pressure or stretch, just… hard, unadulterated stimulation starting to burn up inside him.

He doesn’t realize his body kept moving until he suddenly feels the wall of the cave slam into his back and he has to brace himself against it, frantically shoving himself back into it as far as he can with his legs and digging his nails into dirt at the base, scrabbling for breath and stability. Anakin tightens up wickedly as you both bear down on the phantom intrusion, sweat beading at his hairline as he works to process the foreign sensation and you whimper quietly in your sleep. His cock is rock hard between his legs and he shudders to think that his mind will compensate for the difference and his alter ego will actually take it into his mouth—but no, the projection doesn’t change because it’s still coming from you, still being led by your own desires. Dream-Anakin’s mouth drops and his tongue comes out to keep licking your slit but to the real Anakin, it just looks like his mouth disappears somewhere near his balls, and then a magnificent swell of bliss suddenly kicks in before he can fight as savagely against it as he wants. He’d normally be repulsed, and maybe he currently is to some extent, but because your pleasure spikes so dangerously with it, his hips stutter into the sensation just as desperately.

He’s making noise, he knows he is—he can feel his throat working too hard for just air to be moving through. No, he’s whimpering, or moaning, or doing something but he can’t hear himself at all. His instinct is to yell as loudly as he can, to try and wake you up manually, but it doesn’t seem to work, you’re way too far gone now. He listens for the dust storm that should be screaming outside, the popping of the fire somewhere in this cave, but they’re suddenly nowhere to be found. He’s being dragged under by your enormous current that’s somehow still continuing to build in strength, losing oxygen by the second. He’s not ready for it, he doesn’t want it, he’s terrified, he needs to wake up—

Anakin slams his head back against the wall hard enough to make himself bleed and gasps raggedly as he loses his grip on everything, shutting his eyes tight with his fist shoved up against his teeth. Nothing exists at all anymore but the swirling typhoon that continues raging forth. Beyond purgatory, and then beyond heaven.

When you finally do manage to find the absolute peak of your climb, he’s sure he all but blacks out with it.

It’s pure, blinding rapture on all levels—physical, metaphysical, whatever else exists after that. It surges up with razor-sharp claws of merciless ecstasy and he’s just not equipped to experience anything anywhere close to it. The connection between your minds thrums and sparks violently; Anakin feels the way your body practically soars over top of the pleasure while his is just being ruthlessly pummeled into the ground by it. He’s not meant to handle this, he literally wasn’t made to survive the devastating anomaly—it’s as wicked and excruciating as it is dazzling, and he wonders if he’ll ever truly be able to come back from it.

Eventually, Anakin manages to find his way back to himself. Eventually.

His cock is throbbing, that’s the first thing he‘s able to notice. The dirt floor beneath him that somehow feels slightly different than before, the fetal position he’s assuming on top of it, the once sturdy wall now crumbling to dust against his back.

The next thing he notices is the utter, complete mess he made. Blood slowly drips in a line down his neck and more cum than he’s ever felt himself produce before drenches the front of his pants. Anakin slowly blinks his eyes open, trying to fight the vertigo and wondering if he might have a concussion right now. There are cracks and fractures in the ground that branch out from the small crater at his back, and the fire is completely extinguished now, charred logs splintered and strewn about like somebody detonated a bomb in here.

At some point, his gaze drags over towards you, and remarkably, you haven’t moved. Still curled up on your side with your back to him, still breathing slow and steady and undisturbed.

Anakin pants in exhaustion and waits for you to turn over to address him and what he did. There’s no way you’re still asleep, not after what just happened. Anakin couldn’t get through it without sending a giant shockwave through the entire cave and quite literally rupturing the ground beneath him, he’s surprised you even managed to stay in one spot the entire time. He doesn’t know if you feel violated right now and are refusing to acknowledge him, or if it’s just taking as long as he is for your brain to catch up and start functioning again.

That is, until he hears a small snore come from your unmoving body once more.

Anakin blinks.

No. You have to be awake, he figures, moving to prop himself upright and wipe the blood from his neck with the dark sleeve of his robe. There’s no possible way that the orgasm you both shared is actually… normal, no, the sheer power of it had to be influenced by his presence somehow. He must have… increased it, or something. Anakin doesn’t know how, but he knows he must be directly responsible, this had to have been the strongest you’ve ever cum in your life and you just don’t know how to confront him about it right now, so you’re pretending to sleep. Yes, that’s what it is, that’s what it has to be.

He’s not going to check, though. He’s not going to find any lingering energy left within himself to summon and look for the thick darkness of sleep still enveloping you, he’s not going anywhere near your signature right now. No, Anakin is fine just like this, exactly where he is. Instead of verifying or confirming his own understanding, he’ll just be extra confident in it, that’s always worked well for him.

So he just sits back and takes a deep, shuddering breath, feeling like his whole body is weak and trembling with fatigue. Maybe you are asleep, he shrugs. Maybe he’s wrong, and selfish, and an idiot. Or maybe.

Maybe you just like keeping secrets, too.

#anakin x reader #anakin skywalker x reader #anakin skywalker #anakin x you #anakin skywalker x you #Smut #reader insert #dark anakin #no-droids

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ashintheairlikesnow · 3 years

Note

For Vampire Chris! What if he and Jake went to a museum and came across some of Tooley's paintings? And Chris has a panic attack! We would finally get some Jake comfort. And maybe Chris would reveal more horrible things that Tooley had done to him.

CW: Discussion of death, blood, vampire whumpee, caretaker and whumpee

The sun sets early in the winter, and it's the only reason they can make this work.

Chris is barely awake even so, sipping from a coffee cup Jake filled with the contents of one of his blood packs, hoping he doesn't trip and spill and lead to Jake having some very awkward, panicked explanations to make to anyone nearby.

He'd slept in the truck Jake borrowed from Nat most of the way over here, curled in the passenger seat. He looks for all the world like any high schooler who stayed up too late the night before, dragged out by his family, forced to go learn when all he wants is rest.

Chris is draped in a hooded sweatshirt pulled on over his head, hair mussed from sleeping in the closet in the little nest-bed he made for himself in there. It sticks out like stray from beneath the hood he's pulled up, coppery strands occasionally covering his eyes and making him shove them out of the way with a snort that has no right to be as adorable as it is, considering the monster who makes the sound.

Not a monster, no. Not really.

Or his monster, anyway, the same way his mother is his mother. Jake is starting to understand the little vampire - more than three times his own age - has chosen him for family now.

The sweater he wears is kind of a joke, actually. Jake bought it weeks ago from a website that puts the covers of books on clothes, and it's an old cover image from Dracula.

Jake thought it was funny, anyway. Nat was less amused. Chris only smiled and said something about being happy the hairy palms thing isn't true.

The air is chilly, and Jake shivers a little as they head in from the parking lot across a small sidewalk next to a park and toward the museum itself, but of course Chris doesn't even notice. He seems to be enjoying it, the way it blows around his hair as they make their way slowly up the steps and past the row of Grecian-style columns that mark the entrance.

Jake has to visit for one of his classes, an extra-credit something-or-other, and Chris had asked to go along with him.

Jake had been hesitant, but seeing the way the vampire's green eyes sparkle as he moves around in public like any other person, well... he feels like he made the right choice to bring him along now.

"Finish up your drink, you can't take anything in once we pay and get past the lobby," Jake says, and Chris nods, gulping the last of the blood as fast as he can as they push through wide double-doors. Jake tries not to imagine how it must feel, swallowing thick congealing cooled blood. Someone's life, someone's heartbeat, down your throat...

Really, is he that much different? Jake has eaten a dozen cows' worth of beef in his life.

Does Chris see them all as just livestock? He doesn't act like it, but then, there are people who treat pigs or cows like pets and not like food...

His stomach flips a little and he forces himself to look around, up at the chandelier at the high ceiling, the heavy wooden desk they have to walk to off to the side to get their tickets. To stop trying to understand if Chris is a sort of stray they've adopted, or if he's a higher-level predator living with prey.

Once Chris drops the cup into a trash can, Jake throwing a couple wadded-up tissues on top so no one can accidentally see the smear of red around the edge of the lid, they buy their tickets, and wind their way through and past the little velvet ropes that mark off the entrance.

The museum opens before them into a grand hall, with paintings the size of two-story buildings on either side, permanent installations in the museum. Commissioned for its opening, sometime back in the 70's.

Jake picks up a brochure so they know which way to go - LGBTQ+ Art in Pre-War America is the temporary exhibit he's here to see, traveling work that is usually housed in the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York City.

"Oh, nice, it's on the first floor. Looks like you go through a couple of 'specialty' rooms, just showing off stuff from the in-house collection. Sounds cool, right?"

Chris, looking from side to side at the gigantic paintings that hang on the walls in the opening hall, hums softly, a tuneless constant sound. He doesn't answer Jake's question. He hums often, and Jake barely notices any longer, but there's something edged to it, now. As if just being around the paintings is making him nervous.

"Okay, little man, let's go over here." He touches Chris's arm, lightly, through the thick fabric of his sweater. The vampire looks over at him, smiling with his lips pressed together to hide his teeth from any potential prying eyes.

He follows easily, but he sticks closer to Jake than he normally does, and his eyes are constantly roving. They move through an exhibit of Pre-Colombian pottery first, on their way to the room in the back where the temporary showcase is.

Jake watches Chris's fingers twitch with the urge to touch, to learn by feeling the bumps and ridges in the ancient clay, and how he holds back as best he can. His urge to lift the clear protective plastic boxes right off the pottery so he can get at it is nearly physically painful.

Jake pretends not to see it when Chris's fingers trail along a column, settling for the white-painted rectangle the pottery is balanced on, taking in the rough texture smoothed by the matte paint.

"Did you ever meet anyone like you that was old enough to have made stuff like this?" Jake asks, stopping in front of a water jug in the shape of a man playing a flute with a dog at his feet. The dog wears a carved smile marked with disturbingly human-looking teeth. The paint it must have been covered in is worn by time, leaving the reddish-brown of the clay behind, with the faintest streaks of white still in the crevices.

"No," Chris replies, tilting his head, making direct eye contact with the statue in a way he never quite can do with any real person. Not comfortably, anyway. Jake has seen him force it and shudder afterwards, overwhelmed. When he'd asked about it, Chris had said he never liked looking at anyone's eyes, even before, when he was alive. It's too much, was all he would say. It's always too much. "None, um, none of us live that long."

"Why not?" They're alone in the room. It's the only reason Jake feels safe asking.

Chris's tongue runs over the sharpening bumps of his growing-in fangs, pressing against them, easing the itch and the ache of their return. After a second, he pulls a plastic bat on a cord from inside his sweater and puts the bat into his mouth, chewing on it idly, jaw working. "I, I, I don't know. That's just what what what my, my, my pack told me."

"I thought vampires lived in covens."

"No." Chris doesn't elaborate on this one. He can be weirdly secretive about how he lived before he came to Nat's, before he was pulled out of a basement, a living drug for a wealthy asshole.

Secretive, or just forgetting whatever wasn't essential.

He moves away to another pedestal, a shard broken off of a larger vessel, marked with a deep white and intense black angular design. He hums again, and Jake takes the hint and leaves him alone.

They spend several more minutes looking over the pottery before they head through a second room full of what must just be the favorite pieces of museum employees, as there doesn't seem to be much rhyme or reason, and each little card with the name of the piece and its maker has a paper next to it with a note on why each employee loves this piece in particular. Chris lingers around older things, a woven tapestry from medieval England, landscapes from the 19th century. He stares for a while at a painting called The Country Path by Joseph Poole Addy, a pale watercolor of winter trees with bare branches breaking the line of sky and a woman bundled in a coat carrying a basket down an equally colorless road.

Chris's humming getting louder, and he rocks a little, forward and back, his eyes moving again and again through the lines of the painting.

Jake wonders what it is about this one specifically that catches Chris like that, and when the vampire finally moves on he checks the employee's statement. Joseph Poole Addy, Irish painter in the 19th and 20th centuries, blah blah, something something countryside... Jake frowns, and glances over at Chris, who isn't looking back. He's moved on to something else.

Jake decides to ask him later.

They make it to the exhibit they're here to see, and Jake whistles under his breath as he enters. There are vibrant, saturated paintings lining the walls, a couple of large sculptures on the floor that still are taller than he is, a few smaller ones on pedestals. The work is mostly figurative, although there's some early abstraction there, a hint of the contemporary push to take even figurative work out of simply being an echo of a real life thing.

Chris looks at a sculpture, his head cocked so far to the side it looks almost birdlike, not quite human. Jake thinks his own neck would ache for days if he tried to do that. "Must've been, um, later," He mumbles to himself.

Jake files that away in his mental list of things to talk to Chris about later.

He walks slowly along the line of paintings. The whole point of being here is that he's supposed to pick a specific piece and write a short essay about it and the artist who made it, prove he saw it in person.

The class itself is about how to encourage better outcomes for healthcare in marginalized populations - but if she's giving out extra-credit for looking at queer art, well, Jake is happy to spend an hour in a museum.

After his dismal performance on the last test, he could use whatever credit he can get. Besides, the exhibit is actually kind of cool with that in mind. Every one of these artists was in some way outside of the sort of het ideal, and Jake smiles a little as he catches the heaviness of a look between two men seated across a table from one another, looks over the clasped hands of women, sitting with everything from shoulder to hip touching, who are listed as 'friends visiting the riverbank'.

Art that celebrates, hidden in plain sight. Art that rebels by sliding details in under the surface where only those looking for them will find them.

Each piece has another little paper, although this just has details about the artist and their work, what they were known for. He can use it as a jumping-off point for his paper, anyway.

"You, you, you finished her," Chris whispers, standing in front of a sculpture of a woman with her head thrown back as if in uproarious laughter, a woman with curls expertly carved so that her hair seems to have been there before the stone it's made of somehow. "I wonder if she, um, if if if she saw it."

"What'd you say, Chris?" Jake blinks, pulled out of his own internal reverie.

"Nothing," Chris responds, and walks slowly around the statue. The woman's smile is a shining light in the room. No one could carve like that without being at least a little in love with the subject.

Jake wanders away and then comes to an abrupt stop before a large painting, probably taller than Chris is. The background is near-total darkness with only a suggestion of stone, a single beam of light shining down to illuminate the central figure.

A naked boy clothed only in scraps of torn cloth that only emphasize his nakedness everywhere else is crouched in terror. His knees are bent and his feet are on the floor, one hand holding his weight with fingers slightly curled, his spine bent and arched as if he is caught in the midst of turning to look up to find the direction of the light. His other hand is thrown out, as if trying to ward off an attack.

He bleeds from a dozen or more places, the blood curving perfectly around his form, giving it extra weight and heft that makes it seem like he'll step out of the canvas, grab Jake, and shake him.

Jake's heart starts to race as he stares.

There are bones littering the ground around the thin, wasted boy, not bleached but sort of yellowed, marked with little notches as if cut with a knife. There might still be bits of skin attached to some of them, a hint of muscle. The detail makes Jake sick, but his panic, that comes from something else entirely. Just behind the panicked boy there is a body, as if just fallen, the eyes still open in the final terrified throes of death. The body's fingers are still dug into the dirt floor as if the dead man had been trying to pull himself somewhere, to escape.

A skull watches with eerie cheer from one corner of the painting, a few teeth missing and knocked out from its garish grin.

Barely visible, a thin wash of grayish-white, there is a pale, gnarled hand near the bottom reaching out from the background as if to grab the boy's ankle and drag him into the darkness.

Count Ugolino's Last Son, oils, 1932, reads the little plaque beside the painting. Its faint brassy shine glints in the carefully calibrated light. Edward Tooley, 1907 - 1936.

Jake swallows, but the lump in his throat doesn't budge, and he swallows again. And again. He can't take his eyes off the boy's painted hair, a dirtied copper, strawberry-blond badly in need of a wash. The wide green eyes with their terror writ large and clear, painted with lovingly perfect detail.

The boy in the painting is the perfect identical twin of the vampire who is still staring at the sculpture on the other side of the room. The fear in his face is so expertly done as to seem more photographic than painted in oil. The blood that drips to the ground follows his anatomy with absolute perfection. The bones are not bleached by they so often are in paintings, no, these...

These...

Jake holds his phone up and takes a photo, and then another of the little plaque.

"Chris." His voice cracks and Jake clears his throat. His heart is still pounding. "Chris, come look at this."

"Yes, Jake," Chris answers, sounding a little faint, and then he seems to simply appear at Jake's elbow, the teenage boy who has seen two world wars and a half-dozen smaller, stupider ones.

He goes still at Jake's side when he looks up. Jake looks over, just slightly, glancing sidelong to see a look of something like... wistfulness on the vampire boy's face.

"Tooley," He breathes. His hand goes up, and out, and he would have touched the canvas if Jake hadn't reached out and grabbed on to stop him. Chris jumps a little and turns to meet Jake's gaze. His eyes are pink-tinged in the whites, as if he's holding back tears. "Is, is, is he famous?"

"I guess. He's... he's here, isn't he?"

"He always wanted to, um, to to to to be famous." Chris's eyes move over the details, but it's not with surprise, it's with easy familiarity. He's seen this painting before.

He's been this painting before.

"That's you, isn't it?" Jake asks in a hushed voice. "Like, that was really you."

Chris looks away again, a faint flush in his cheeks. He's full enough of blood for it to happen, and you'd never know he isn't alive if you didn't already. "Yes," He whispers, and wipes at the corner of his eye with one hand. "That, that, that's me."

"Were you his model?" Jake blinks, looking back over the painted twin of the vampire beside him. The fear in the boy's face, woven in with a kind of awful resignation. It's all so perfectly rendered.

"Yes. Sort, um. Sort of. He, he, he kept me in a room." Chris exhales, slowly, and his eyes shift over to the paper with the little bit of biographical information on it. Edward Tooley's early works focused on landscapes or retreads of common historical subjects, only to find greater excellence and focus when he began to paint, again and again, the same figure - a representation of the darkness of the human soul - he stated appeared to him and demanded to be portrayed... art historians believe Tooley was driven by the demons of the Great War that had taken his family from him one by one to seek out uncomfortable subjects that force viewers to see the damage humans do to one another...

Chris's nose wrinkles as he reads, his lips moving slightly with the words as he takes them in. "I never did that. Never, um, wanted to be painted. Also, um this, um. He was... wasn't... he wasn't... wasn't like the paper says."

Jake looks over, reads it himself. Gregarious, sociable, popular with the libertine art crowd... he frowns. "What part is wrong?"

"This." Chris points, this at least he can safely make contact with, and presses the pad of his finger under a sentence that reads took inspiration from the ugly side of the city hidden under its shining lights. "He, he, he he didn't care about anyone in the city. He thought everyone who, who who who who-who wasn't him was, um, was stupid."

"What did he care about?" Jake imagines telling his professor that instead of an essay, he's going to bring in a vampire who literally knew one of the artists in person. How she might react.

Probably call the cops and report an unsecured vampire loose on the streets. But maybe she'd listen to what Chris had to say first.

"Blood," Chris says, softly. His voice is getting lower and lower, until it's barely more than a whisper. "Pain. Fear. Being... being the the the the last person who, who saw someone. He, he, he, he liked to lay them out and paint them, liked me to, to, to... arrange them for him."

Jake's eyes go unwillingly back to the dead body behind the scared boy in the painting. The grasping fingers, the open eyes that look sightless, lifeless, at nothing at all. When he looks, he can see - more suggestion than made clear - that the body's throat is torn open, as if by an animal's teeth.

Now, only now that he's looking for it, does he realize there is the slightest hint of red tears on the cheeks of the painted boy, a sheen of pink on his teeth where he begs for mercy from the grasping singular hand coming out of the dark.

His stomach flips again. "Chris, are you saying-"

"His, his, his name was Ben." Chris nods at the dead body in the painting. "I asked. Before..." He gestures, a little vaguely. "That."

Jake feels a sudden, wild urge to look up missing persons cases from New York City in 1932. See if there's anyone named Ben on there. He knows without having to do so that there definitely will be.

"What happened to him... after?"

"I don't know. I, I, I was never let out when Tooley was gone. I... wonder how, how, how many of me there are." Chris looks up at the echo of his own face, his head tilting again. His lips tremble, just a little, and then part to show the hint of white teeth wet with pinkish saliva. "On walls, in houses, in... in places like, um. Like this. How many there are... is, is, is, is that what I still look like?"

Jake clears his throat again, looks down at his feet. This feels, suddenly, like he's walked in on someone looking down at his own dead body in a funeral home. Interrupting a moment so immensely private it shouldn't even exist.

"Yeah," he says, a little gruffly. "Yeah, that's it. More or less. Except I hope I scare you less than that. Also you wear a lot more clothes with us."

Chris laughs - it's a huff of sound, barely-there. Then he turns away from himself. "We, we, we can't see ourselves, in mirrors," He says, and he's got the little plastic bat back in his hand, rubbing his thumb over the carved silicone. "But I have mirrors everywhere. On these walls."

He goes suddenly terribly still. He isn't breathing.

He doesn't have to, but the realization that he isn't even pretending is a jolt of awareness of exactly how dead Chris is. He leaves the exhibit, and Jake is left to scramble after him, struggling to catch up to someone he should be able to easily outrun.

He breaks into a flat run when they get outside the double-doors, jumps the steps three at a time with grace, and runs across the grass and towards the stand of trees halfway across the park. Even Jake, who works out four days a week, is breathing hard and has a hitch in his rib by the time he catches up.

He finds Chris curled up under a tree in the evening dark, the stars starting to twinkle overhead as the sun finally allows them a clear night sky to shine in.

Jake drops to his knees, ignoring the damp that seeps into his jeans from soil that still hasn't dried since yesterday's rains, and he leans over, putting a warm hand to either side of the vampire's face.

Chris looks up, his eyes glinting like a cat's briefly in the dark, and there are trails down his cheeks, his lips pulled back from his teeth in a snarl that is anything but angry.

No, this is grief.

This is loss.

Jake knows the feeling.

"Talk to me," Jake says softly. "Tell me what it was like, what it's been like for you. Tell me about the life you've lived before I knew you."

"It, it, it hurt," Chris whispers, and his own hands cover Jake's. They're the same temperature as the air around them, and Jake shivers a little. It's almost a chill. "Every time. I, I, I try not to kill, Jake, I try so hard, but but but he would keep me so hungry and I couldn't-... stop..."

Jake thinks about the robbers Chris killed - for him, to save him from them - and how he'd locked himself in the closet afterward. Had he cried like this, over taking lives even when in defense?

"The museum thing said this guy Tooley died in 1936. He was only, what, twenty-nine? Did... did you-"

"Yes." Chris's voice is thick but it's not quite with regret. "I was hungry. He, he he he he didn't bring food. I was so hungry... then I was, um, was alone for a while... then, then, then, then then then I was taken for, for, for the, um, the trade, for my v-venom, and..."

"Got it. I got it, Chris. It's okay," Jake says, softly. "It's going to be okay. You're with us, now. And we'll never, ever make you hurt someone that way. We'll never make you go hungry. We'll never hurt you or use you."

Chris ducks his head, rocking forward until it knocks into Jake's shoulder, and Jake slides his arms around the vampire's shoulders, listening to his soft, muffled sobs, wondering how red his shirt will be stained by the time the vampire's tears have been cried out.

The same mouth that tore out the throat of a dead body that lays in a painting on the wall is so close to his neck it would take less than an inch for him to bite down. Even without fangs, he could lock his jaw and break the skin.

The same dangerous monster that has killed likely dozens to stay alive, the same stalking predator that has been the last sight of far too many, cries in his arms. Just a teenage boy who has been lonely, and terrified, and hurt for too long.

A teenager... and a monster that hunts prey after dark. Jake tightens his arms around Chris, holds him tighter.

It doesn't matter.

It doesn't matter how long he's been alive, not really.

He's just Chris.

That matters more.

@mylifeisonthebookshelf @insaneinthepaingame @keeper-of-all-the-random-things @burtlederp @finder-of-rings @newandfiguringitout @astrobly @endless-whump @pretty-face-breaker @gonna-feel-that-tomorrow @doveotions @boxboysandotherwhump @oops-its-whump @cubeswhump @whump-tr0pes @downriver914 @whumptywhumpdump @whumpiary @orchidscript @nonsensical-whump @outofangband @what-a-whump

#whump #vampire whump #vampire whumpee #blood tw #recovering whumpee #caretaker and whumpee #nonhuman whumpee #immortal whumpee #vampire #vampirism #vampire fiction #horror fiction #original fiction #whump writing #chris the strawberry blond romantic #vampire chris au #past torture

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bqstqnbruin · 4 years

Text

But mostly I hate the way I don’t hate you, not even close, not even a little bit, not even at all

Imma be honest I forgot what this last part was supposed to be called aidfjaoisf (also I know I used that gif for another part but c’mon tell me you don’t love it)

ANYWAY I caved and decided to post THE FINAL PART of 10 Things I Hate About You tonight as an ✨early✨ birthday thing for Matty (compromise ?). Thank you to everyone and anyone who has read it and put up with my perpetual being annoying about this but especially a thank you to @fratboytj for pretty much writing the poem in this with me and @pucksnsticksnhockeyboys @indyfish for their help, too, ily 💛

Here we go, y’all. Enjoy the ride!

Read the other parts here: I hate the way you talk to me and the way you cut your hair // I hate the way you drive my car // I hate it when you stare // I hate your big dumb combat boots and the way you read my mind // I hate you so much it makes me sick, it even makes me rhyme // I hate the way you’re always right // I hate the way you lie // I hate it when you make me laugh, even worse when you make me cry // I hate it when you’re not around, and the fact that you didn’t call

___________________________

“What? No, I’m not going to-”

“Leave. Now.”

---------

“Because I love you.”

You take a step back in shock, even Evelina letting out a small gasp before retreating to her bedroom. “You have no right to say that to me,” you tell him, trying not to let him get to you. “You can’t leave me alone for over a week and then just waltz here and say that to me. You couldn’t even pick up the phone when I called you yesterday.”

He looks at you, completely confused. “You needed space. How is that my fault? You pushed me away at the bar and I came back. You pushed me away in the street and I came back. You pushed me away here and where was I supposed to go? How could I call you when I was afraid you would push me away a third time?”

“I tried to come back to you. I called you yesterday and you ignored me,” you repeat, your voice getting louder, “If you wanted anything to do with me you would have answered.”

“What the fuck am I supposed to do? Drop everything any time you call me? I was on the phone with someone else and I called you as soon as I saw you called me, and you didn’t answer me,” the level of his voice matching yours, the flowers he brought you making a mess all over your floor as he angrily waved them around.

You shake your head, not wanting to tell him that it was because you had blocked him. ‘If it were meant to be, he would have been able to answer when you called,’ you tell yourself. “We’re only meant to be friends, Matthew,” is all you can manage to get out.

“How long are we going to keep dancing around the fact that you and I are meant for each other?” he asks, trying to fight back the tears that he knew were coming. God, if anyone else could see him right now, they would never think he was some NHL enforcer, whatever the hell the media called him. He was just a guy in love, trying to get the girl to understand her feelings for him.

“How long is it going to take you to understand that I hate so much about you?” you spit out at him, trying to hide the regret you felt as soon as you said it. “If we were meant to be then making that list wouldn’t have been as easy as it was,” you lie.

“Because we both know that’s not true,” he says, choking back the inevitable sob that was begging to come through as he tries to get closer to you. You weren’t sure what to make of this, you had never seen him this worked up over anything like this before, not to the point of tears, at least.

“That’s bullshit and you know it,” you lie, trying to stand your ground, trying not to crumble before him.

“How is it bullshit? Everyone can tell that we’re in love with each other. Everyone but you. There is no one on this planet who knows you better than I know you. There is not one person that is more made for you than I am. There is no one more made for me than you are,” he tries to tell you, not wanting to let yourself hear his words.

They stung, no matter how much you didn’t want his words to get to you. Part of you knew he was right, and the other part of you didn’t want to admit it. “So, what, because other people believe it, that automatically means it’s true? I could get any guy and he could be better than you are for me.”

“Yeah? What names would this other guy call you in bed? Would he know where to touch you? Would he know that right here,” he drops the flowers so he can spin you around, kissing you behind your ear, his lips lingering long enough to pull a moan from your lips, “Is where you melt into me?”

“No!” you say, pulling his arm from your waist. “You can’t do that to me,” you tell him, tears falling down your face, your voice choked with a sob, “You can’t tell me these things when you’ve been hiding so much from me this entire time.”

“I hid one thing from you,” he insists. “You hide ten things you hated about me. I don’t even care about that at this point. It doesn’t matter if other people think it’s true or not. What matters is that we know it’s true. I love you.”

“Fuck you. Fuck. You. You do not get to tell me that. I can’t even look at you right now, Matthew,” you tell him, trying to think of anywhere you could retreat to when you remember you’re supposed to be downstairs waiting for your boss to show up, Evelina locked in her room to avoid any confrontation that might come from her being a third party.

“You don’t mean that. You know how you feel about me. Why can’t you just say it?” You look at him, the pain he felt showing on his face. You hated that you were doing this to him, but you hated it more that he was doing this to you. You couldn’t say it to him. You couldn’t lose him because of how you felt about him.

“You don’t know what I mean, Matthew. Evelina and I have to get going,” you try to go to her room to get her, praying that your boss wasn’t bombarding you with texts on your phone buried in your bag before you had to deal with him.

“That doesn’t even make sense.”

You whip around to him irritated, that hatred of yourself turning into anger towards him that he kept pushing you when you clearly were already on edge. “Why do I have to make sense? I have not slept. I have barely eaten. I can’t even go five seconds without thinking of your stupid face, hearing your dumb laugh, and just wanting you next to me and knowing that all of that is a bad idea. We are friends Matthew. That is it. That is all we can be.”

“Is that what you want? Why do you keep denying everything?” he asks, his hand warped around your arm, just tight enough that it didn’t hurt, not hard enough that you could easily escape from him.

You look down at the floor, biting your lip. “Why do you think?”

“Come on,” he says, his other hand on you, pulling you ever so slightly closer to him. The distance between you was the smallest it had been in a week, you wanting nothing more than to take him in for a hug, kiss him, something that would make this go away. But you couldn’t do that. You couldn’t even answer him. “This right here is our issue!” he snaps, letting go of you.

You stand there, frozen, hearing Evelina come out of her room. “I don’t care. You need to leave.”

Matthew stands there, shocked. “What? No. I’m not going to-”

“Leave. Now,” you say, standing firm, grabbing your bags from the floor along with Evelina’s hand. “We have to go, our boss is waiting. Take the pile of shit that’s in Evelina’s room that yours,” you say, looking to her for a nod telling you it was ok. You drag Evelina to the door, her shocked over your entire conversation. “And Matthew?” you ask, a single tear falling from his eye.

“What?”

“Leave your key,” you tell him, your voice cracking as you shut the door and leave him there to collect his things.

“You just left him in our apartment to go through my room?” Evelina whines as the two of you run to the stairs in hopes that he won’t be able to find you, catch you and cause a scene out on the street.

“You nodded and I took that as it was ok. He’s out of my life and that’s how I want it for now so I don’t care what you think but you need to respect it. No more of this meddling, Evelina. There is no way he would have known to come right before we were leaving unless you told him,” you spit out at her as you sprint down the stairs. You hear her inhale as if she were about to say something, stopping at the landing and turning to her, “I’m not mad. You gave me the chance for a goodbye. A goodbye before we leave for a new city, even though we’re coming back here.” It’s Thomas all over again, but this time, you were the one leaving him.

Evelina nods, taking your hand and leading you outside where the caravan that had your coworkers and boss was already waiting, your boss leaning on the door of the car. “Sorry, I had a slight family emergency that I was trying to deal with. Luckily, though, you planned out plenty of extra time so that we were going to be at the airport about four and a half hours before our flight anyway,” you say, smiling at him, hoping he could hear the sarcasm that was dripping in your voice through the latter half of the sentence.

“Evelina said you couldn’t find something,” he mutters, taking your bags from you as you climb in the car, not sure how to respond to the rest of your obviously sarcastic chipperness.

“That was the emergency,” you lie, “My mom thought I took something with me back here and wanted to catch me before we leave. Don’t worry we found it. It’s right where it belongs,” you say, closing the door as the three of you join the other two, getting ready to finally leave for a few days.

This was good. This is what you needed. Work would keep you busy, especially considering your boss bought what you were telling him, already changing subjects to talk about the conference and what else he thought the four of you should be doing while you weren’t presenting. The van was about to pull away, seeing the door of your building swing open, Matthew red in the face holding his coat and the key. You swallow hard, not letting yourself start to cry as you pull away, focusing your attention back to your boss even though what he was saying was mundane and trivial to you at this point.

Matthew watches the car leave with you in it, the key he thought he lost in his hand, not realizing you had had it the entire time, never using it. He had no idea if you even wanted it, if you knew you had it. If you did, then that would mean the entire time, you never wanted to use it. This entire time, you really didn’t love him, no matter how much he loved you.

All he could do was put the key in his pocket and walk away. So he did.

You do your best to tune out our boss, getting to the airport in no time and finding yourself sitting on the floor outside of the gate, the four of you on your computers going over the last minute details of the presentation you had tomorrow. No matter how hard you tried, you still had a nagging voice in your ear that you need to tell him, that you shouldn’t push him away. All you could do was take a breath and ignore it, talking when you had to, giving your input, and forcing yourself to think of nothing but this presentation and the conference.

By the time you land in LA, you were more exhausted than when you left, your boss talking your ear off about heading to the conference that night to scope things out, see potential future directions for projects for your company, talk to other people and make more connections in the states since he thinks you were one of the few groups from Canada present. “Y/N? Have you been listening to a word I’ve said?” he asks, either oblivious to your eyes drooping as you struggle to stay awake while Evelina checks everyone in, or not caring in the slightest.

“You want to go to the conference tonight because there’s the expo and you want free stuff, and other people to talk to about their business ventures” you mumble, knowing that was what he said pretty much verbatim.

He leaves you alone, Evelina coming over and having to drag you to the room the two of you were going to share. “We have like three hours before he wants us to meet for dinner and head to the convention center. You’ve gotta get some sleep,” she insists, you acting like such a zombie you didn’t even realize that you were already standing in front of your hotel room door.

You nod, not caring enough at this point to argue with her. You fall asleep as soon as your head hits the pillow, Evelina probably moving around the room without you even realizing it. You knew you were dreaming, unable to really talk, just watching the scene around you unfold. You had no idea where you were, walking around a backyard, two small children, a boy and a girl, squealing as they chased each other around. There was a house behind you, other people who you couldn’t make out laughing and talking. You knew that everything and everyone you saw in your dreams were places and people you had seen before, your mind unable to conjure up life like that when in a dream state. You just couldn’t figure out where you knew everything from.

You feel two arms snake around your waist, someone’s chin nestled onto your shoulder, immediately feeling yourself relax into whoever it was even though you couldn’t tell.

“Look at them,” the familiar voice says. You knew that voice. You knew who it was as he planted a kiss on your neck, feeling his curls graze against your ear once he pulled away, your knees going weak at the feeling you didn’t realize you missed. “I can’t wait for the next baby Tkachuk to come along,” he whispers. You look down, reaching to touch your swollen stomach, somehow missing that before.

You shoot straight up, awake and breathing heavily. “Fuck,” you whisper, thankful that Evelina was in the bathroom and unable to see the panic wash over you. Dreaming about pregnancy typically meant that you were about to start something new. One point to your subconscious for that one. “Ev?” you call, getting off the bed and going over to her. Do you tell her about the dream?

“What’s up?” she calls from behind the closed door.

“Uh, what time are we leaving for dinner?” you ask.

“I was gonna wake you up in like five minutes to give you half an hour to get ready?” she says, opening the door. “You ok?”

“Yeah, why?”

“Your hand is on your stomach.”

You hadn’t realized it was, involuntarily holding it like you had been in the dream. “Yeah, just hungry,” you lie as she passes by you, thankful she couldn’t see the smile that was growing on your face.

--------------

It was the first and only night of the conference that you didn’t have to be there if you didn’t want to, unbothered by your boss who encouraged you to wander the city and try to find something ‘more fun than listening to people talking about what you’re passionate about,’ despite him being oblivious to the fact that none of you wanted to be there for the last two days you were supposed to be. You were sitting on the bed, your computer up with your earbuds in trying to find something on Netflix to watch for the night, watching Evelina get ready to go to the game out of the corner of your eye.

“I really do want you to come with me,” Evelina says, standing next to your bed with her Lindholm jersey on from Matthew.

You don’t look up from your computer, knowing that if you saw her in the flaming C you would cave in and go with her, the last thing you wanted to do. “I don’t have anything to wear even if I wanted to go,” you tell her, trying to give her a tone that made it sound like you didn’t care, no matter how much you did.

“You know you want to go. Come on. Matthew or not, it’s free tickets to a hockey game. We haven’t seen a bunch of grown men in skates beating each other up live and in person in ages because we never have money. And, it’s LA. If you start swearing at him then no one would question it because they hate him, too. And you do have something to wear.” You look up, clearly confused. Evelina goes over to her bag, holding up the red fabric that was supposed to be in Matthew’s apartment. “Please?” she says, handing it to you.

“You’re not going to stop until I say yes, are you?” you ask her, tracing over the letters of his last name slowly with your thumbs.

“You know me well enough to know that the answer is probably not,” she says. “Plus, I don’t know. Since we got here, you’ve been different than you have been the last few days. I know he’s been on your mind.” You look at her, unsure how she could have figured that out when you knew you hadn’t mentioned him since you got to Los Angeles in the first place. “You changed your phone background from a picture of us to a picture of you and Matthew. The one when we went to that apple orchard back where your parents live? You were on his shoulders so you could get the apple at the top of the tree?” she says, pulling a smile from you. You tap on your phone screen, bringing up the picture she was talking about. You mentioned that your dad always said the best apple was at the top of the tree, putting you on his shoulders so you could reach them when you were younger. Matthew picked you up and helped you get the apple, Evelina taking the picture of you two right before Matthew nearly dropped you.

Caving easily after her pointing that out, you throw the jersey over your head, closing your laptop. “Then we’re going before I change my mind.”

She squeals, grabbing your hand and running out the door, ordering the Uber for it to get there in record time. You get into the car, your heart racing about seeing him again, even if it were from afar. You didn’t know what to do if you came to face to face with him, somehow.

“I don’t like how easy it was for you to convince me,” you say to her as she gets the tickets Matthew had set aside for you.

“You’re just lucky that I packed the jersey instead of leaving it for Matthew,” she boasts, the two of you wandering through the Staples center, two red dots in a sea of black and white. You could feel the eyes of everyone on you, clearly sticking out, not belonging while wandering through the arena while you try to find your seats. You get there as the boys take the ice for the first warm ups, half an hour to puck drop.

You feel your heart start to race when you see Matthew take the ice, unsure if he realized you where there or if he even knew where you would be sitting. “Are you ready to admit it yet?” Evelina asks you, noticing that you hadn’t taken your eyes off him since he started skating and stretching.

You watch him joke around with Johnny and Sean, not seeing Elias find you two in the crowd and waving to you. He gets Matthew’s attention, pointing to your seats. You and Matthew make eye contact, giving him a weak smile, all you could manage to give. He nods, his lips forming a thin line before turning back to his other teammates. “I guess not,” you say, the excitement you felt from seeing him gone.

Why were you even there? He didn’t want you there anymore, clearly. Evelina sees your shift in mood, trying to change the subject back to the conference, telling you about one of the talks she went to while you were off at a poster session. You try to keep your focus on her, listening to what she was talking about but not hearing anything, stealing looks at Matthew whenever you had the chance, just wishing that you would catch him doing the same.

The game starts, you paying no attention to anything besides Evelina, unable to keep your focus on the puck moving across the ice, instead focusing on the curly haired pest that was already wreaking havoc against the Kings. No matter what you did to try to take your attention away from him, you were drawn to him.

Elias ends up scoring off an assist from Matthew, Evelina jumping and cheering even though she was drowned out by the deafening boos from the surrounding Kings fans. You watch the boys skate over to the bench, sitting down and taking off their helmets. Matthew makes eye contact with you, both of you freezing for a moment before Gio gets Matthew’s attention. You knew he could feel your eyes on him as your stare lingered, swearing that you caught him glancing over, a smirk on his face even though his captain was talking to him.

“I’m going to head to the bathroom before the line gets too long,” you tell Evelina, getting up with two more minutes left in the period.

“Wait,” Evelina stands up with you, reaching into her jersey and pulling out a folded piece of paper, “Read this.”

“You’re a woman. You don’t have pockets. How did you keep this in there?” you ask her, taking the paper from her clearly confused. “That’s not important. Just go read it.” She pushes you away, causing you to trip on some already irritated Kings fans as you stumble through the aisle to get out.

What even was this? You get up to the concourse, pacing around the currently empty area. You read the first line, immediately knowing that whatever this was is from Matthew:

10 things I love about you

I love the way you rant to me as a way to relax yourself

I love the way you dress to your comfort and won’t listen to anyone else

I love the way you play with your pen even though it makes a mess

I love the way you focus on your work no matter how much it makes you stress

I love the way you get along with the guys and can chirp them all the time

I love the way you’re quiet at first, not letting anyone see you shine

I love the way you’re stubborn as hell and how you drive me crazy

I love the way I’d do anything for you even when you call me lazy

I love the way you’re the one I want to talk to, how my heart races when you call

But mostly, I love the way you say you hate me, even though you don’t, not even a little bit, not even at all.

You get to the last line, tears clearly falling down your face as you walk around like a zombie, your eyes fixated on the piece of paper in front of you while people start flooding from their seats, the silence around you broken by the noise of the Kings fans.

“Hey Calgary!” you hear a man yell, for some reason catching your attention. You see an older guy in a Doughty jersey, looking you up and down. “Fuck Tkachuk,” he says, walking away.

“Don’t you think I would if I could?” you yell back, stopping in your tracks at what you just said out loud. You would if you could. “Ah fuck,” you mutter to yourself. You had to find Matthew, and you had to find him now. You couldn’t go the rest of the game without telling him.

You start running, unsure where you were headed, just hoping that it would eventually lead you to finding someone from the Flames that you recognized that could get you down to Matthew now that it was intermission, forgetting the fight you had back in your apartment before you left for this city.

You finally find someone you recognize, begging them to bring you back down with them because of an emergency that you had to tell Matthew about. What if he didn’t want to see you? What if he left you standing there, humiliated while you waited for him? You started pacing, trying to figure out what you were going to say to him in the case that you did see him.

“Y/N?” you hear him, heating rushing to your cheeks at the sight of him. “They said it was an emergency, what’s up?” he asks, panic washing over his voice at the thought of something wrong with you.

You scrunch your face up, feeling bad that you worried him, but not enough not to do it. “I kinda lied? But I,” you close your eyes, letting out a sigh in hopes of releasing the tension that overcame your entire body, “I needed to see you.”

“Ok?”

“What is this?” you ask him, handing him the paper that Evelina gave you.

His eyes scan the page, a smirk on his face letting out a small laugh. “Evelina asked me about all the ways I love you. I guess she typed it up. But I didn’t say this last thing. Evelina must have written that herself,” he tells you, pointing to the last line. But mostly, I love the way you say you hate me, even though you don’t, not even a little bit, not even at all.

“Is it true?” you ask him.

“You tell me.”

You stand there in silence, both of you staring at the page that Evelina wrote. “I hate the way you cut your hair,” you start, Matthew raising an eyebrow.

“We were having such a nice moment, what are you doing?”

“Just, shut up,” you tell him, both of you smiling at each other. “I hate the way you cut your hair: your curls could make any girl melt and yet you do that thing on the side of your head. I hate the way you drive my car: everytime you get behind the wheel I’m worried about how I’m going to claim the inevitable damage on my insurance,” you start to rant, Matthew laughing as he traces patterns on your hand with his thumb, sending chills through your body, “I hate the way you tease me, and I hate the way you stare because it makes me weak and act so stupid and it makes me so mad that I can’t help it. I hate the way you read my mind, and the way you make me rhyme. And I hate the way you’re always right.”

He can’t help but laugh, shaking his head as he takes a step towards you. In his skates, he towers over you, reaching for your hand as he looks down at you, “That’s only seven things.” “It’s been a month since I started the list. I never got to ten things.”

“Why’s that?” he smirks, pulling you as close to him as he could.

“Do I have to say it?” you whine, a smile on your face anyway.

He nods, his curls moving he did. “Yeah. You do,” he teases, you biting your lip and looking at the ground instead of him. His thumb and forefinger find your chin, tilting your head up to look at him, “Please.”

“Because I love you.”

“There it is!” he yells, lifting you off the ground and spinning you around, your cheeks red as you don’t even try to hide the joy you felt finally admitting it.

“Put me down!” you squeal, his hands on your waist with arms draped on his shoulders. “Do not ruin this,” you warn him, his forehead pressed against yours.

“You really mean it?” he whispers, a bigger smile on his face than you had seen in a long time.

“Yes. I love you, you idiot,” you giggle, caught off guard as his lips connect with yours, the first time in over a week. You hated to admit how much you missed that. You hated to admit how much you really did love him.

“Matthew! Warm ups!” you’re interrupted by Elias standing down the hall, the guys filing from the locker room to ice behind him.

“I gotta go, but meet us after?” he begs, not wanting to let you go.

“Go win the game for me,” you tell him, moving away from him, the connection between your hands lingering.

“I’ve already won,” he says, pulling you in again for another kiss, running down the hall to finish what they started.

#matthew tkachuk #matthew tkachuk imagines #calgary flames #calgary flames imagines #nhl #nhl imagines #flames #flames imagines #hockey #hockey imagines

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dadsbongos · 3 years

Text

Liebeskummer

Movie/Game/Show: Danganronpa: Killing Harmony Dynamic: Korekiyo Shinguji/Reader (and his sister shit but i actually take it seriously, unlike kodaka) Warnings: korekiyo’s backstory/trauma (his sister), sexual/physical/mental abuse implications (and outright said but not described in detail except the emotional and mental), anxiety in both kork and reader and mental breakdown(s?), airhead shit but it’s sad Summary: It’s all her fault. ~~~

Korekiyo suddenly turned to the girl beside him in his quiet research lab, “Have you ever heard of Jack of Fables, (Y/n)?” at her, albeit confused, nod, he continued, “Well, all those myths, fairy tales, and even nursery rhymes in reference to ‘Jack’ are actually about the same man. What this means is that Jack Be Nimble, of the candlestick, Jack the Giant Killer, who sold his cows then murdered and robbed a giant, Stingy Jack, who tricked the devil so relentlessly that he was banned from both afterlives, Jack of Jack and Jill, who cracked open his skull, Jack o’ Lantern, Spirit of Halloween and Headless Horseman, and Jack Frost, Spirit who ends autumn and begins winter are all one in the same. He made so many poor life decisions that he now serves as an immortal representation of winer with a pumpkin serving as head and flashlight. Is that not fascinating?”

“Aw,” (Y/n) grinned, nodding once again, “Like the American ‘Florida man’.”

Korekiyo sighed, disappointment palpable in his tone, “That is… actually much more accurate than I wish to admit.”

“Wait, wait,” she tilted her head, patting the man’s arm despite his attention already being on her, “So… like, was he also Jack the Ripper…?”

His eyes widened at her statement, “(Y/n), I must be grateful you were not born to the life of a woman of the night in Victorian London because I assure you, Jack the Ripper was incredibly real.”

“Oh, that’s so sad…” she pouted before clearing it back into her usual smile almost instantly, “Well, thanks for the folklore fun fact, Kiyo! I didn’t know that Jack was so dumb! God, I’d hate to be like him…”

“You do realize you’re not so bright yourself, yes?”

She shrugged, “I’m fine with that, but at least I’m not tricking the devil!”

So sweet and kind, the Ultimate Composer was. Against all expectations, she wasn’t highbrow or traditionally genius, but she was more than excellent company. And, to top it off, the idea of turning her into one of Sister’s friends was oddly… sickening.

It should’ve been perfectly fine - she was a deeply respectable young woman unlike Miu and Maki, there’s no reason he could have against her.

It just felt wrong.

“Oh! Oh!” she burst out, clapping her hands together, before turning and reaching into a bag slung around her hip. Rooting through scrapped sheet music and notes, once she found what she’d been searching for she held it up excitedly, “Boom!”

Korekiyo took the item, just barely brushing his wrapped fingertips against hers, “Cleopatra’s Pearl Cocktail… much appreciated,” he pressed the small bottle into a pocket on his uniform, “If you enjoy giving gifts, perhaps we can discuss cultural gift-giving practices?”

“Ooh, Kiyo’s gonna teach me?”

“Hmm,” Korekiyo hummed quietly to himself, “Well, perhaps… you would prefer I tell you of a composition piece in relevance to mythology, yes?”

“That’d be nice,” the girl giggled softly, rubbing the back of her neck, “To be honest, I just like when you talk… you sound so smart all the time!”

“My thanks, (Y/n),” he nodded curtly, muttering to himself before coming to speak up, “Alright, I believe that the composition for you would be The Ring of the Nibelung, of Germany.”

“Oh, I know that one!” she knew most ‘ones’, to be fair.

“I had suspected so, but have you heard of the heroic legends behind the pieces?”

“Ah, no… are those what you’re gonna explain?”

“I had planned to, yes. Alright, well, the four parts, as you know, are The Rhinegold, The Valkyrie, Siegfried, and Twilight of the Gods. Nowadays, they are most commonly played as individual, separate works despite making one complete story. They were always intended as a sequence - as The Ring cycle, cleverly. Each piece revolves on a loose basis to German heroic tales and Norse legendary sagas, with the overarching tale of the magic ring forged by the Nibelung dwarf, Alberich, which grants the power to rule the world,” he paused at the sight of (Y/n) yawning, his lips pursed and eyes shot down to his shoes before flickering back up to the girl, “Ah, my apologies for taking far longer than necessary. You must find this- “

“Ah, no!” (Y/n) shook her head, waving her hands about as though it would physically prove how far from needed his apology was, “That’s not it! I’m just kinda tired, ya know?” as if to prove her point, another yawn washed over her, “I hadn’t slept well last night after Kirumi…”

“I see,” Korekiyo nodded, closing his eyes to think over his words, “I apologize for making it about myself. If you wish, I could walk you to your dormitory. Now that you mention it, it has been quite the long day.”

“You don’t have to, Kiyo, I’d hate to bother you so much in one day let alone one sitting,” the composer puffed her cheeks out, “That’d be so obnoxious…”

“I don’t find it obnoxious whatsoever, especially if it’s to aid- “ he hesitated, “to aid a friend.”

He hadn’t had friends before. People usually found him creepy and that was the end of the story - nobody approached him and he didn’t branch out. Life went on. The world spun. His loneliness was everlasting and yet nonexistent. He has Sister. Though, deep down, he knows. She’s on another plane of reality with loneliness stronger than his, that’s why he sends her respectable young women.

Just like (Y/n).

But just… not (Y/n). For reasons he personally chooses to not disclose to even himself.

“Aww, Kiyo! You care!” the girl placed a hand over her heart as if to show that the organ itself was squeezing in delight at his offer.

“Of course, I do,” Korekiyo didn’t like how quiet she made him. How jittery and nervous. And he didn’t like how it made him question the way Sister made him feel.

She also made him nervous but it felt different. He liked to pretend it was the nervousness of a love you don’t quite have yet, but he fully knows he’d be lying. She was a mean girl, a bully in school before being hospitalized. Prone to violent and outright frightening outbursts when she had the energy to do more than force him to her side.

But he didn’t like questioning those feelings for Sister. Who he was, was based on her. His uniform. His passion and talent. His hair. His perfect complexion. His life as the universe knows it is an ode to her.

It’s too late for him to go back now… he’s already done so much in her name it’d be cruel to give up now. He might as well continue for Sister.

“If you really don’t mind, then yeah, I’d like it if we could walk together… I get a little nervous going around at night, you never know who’s gonna snap…”

“And you trust me?”

Shit. That’s what gets him in trouble. It’s as Sister always said. ‘Too naive to make his choices, and once he’s free, too inept to make the right ones.’

“Well, yeah,” (Y/n) spoke as if there was hardly any thought to the answer, “All you’ve shown me is somebody worth trusting,” then, she’s quick to remember poor Kaede, “Well, maybe I’m being silly. But hey, if I have to choose between dying trusting my friends and paranoid beyond myself, then maybe I’d- “ she paused, “Ehhh, I don’t like the way that’s coming out.”

“I understand what you’re attempting to say,” Korekiyo reassured, turning towards his research lab’s exit, “Let us start towards the dormitories, yes?”

“Right!” (Y/n) nearly found herself jogging to catch up to Korekiyo’s long-strided head start, she clutched the strap of her bag as she did so, “So… you heard about Angie’s plan, right?”

“To perform a resurrection?”

“Do you think it’ll work?” she seemed antsier than was typical for her, “I mean, you’re into anthropology, so, like, has there ever been a case where that did work? Do you know?”

“No, besides, that would be more akin to history, remember?” she probably didn’t, her memory failed her at an ungodly amalgamation of best and worst of times.

“Oh, yeah,” she murmured and nodded, pretending to recall the difference between the two.

“Who would you desire back into this game, if you could?”

“Rantaro,” her answer was quick, her fingers looping together nervously, “We didn’t really talk much, but uhm, whenever we did - he was really nice. He said I reminded him of a sister of his… so that’s a good thing, right?”

Depends on who you ask, really.

“You grew attached to him so quickly?” there was no jealousy there, he tried to convince himself.

“I’d be lying if I said I didn’t wish I’d gotten to know him more. He was always running around, trying to save us, and in the end… it got him killed.”

A lot of things will get you killed.

Korekiyo shook off the thoughts racking his brain, “Your care for him even through his estrangedness and peculiarity is truly beautiful, (Y/n),” he fiddled with the locket piece hanging around his shoulders, “Even your care for myself. I’d be lying if I’d said it wasn’t endearing.”

“You’re not…” her words died out, not wanting to lie to a dear companion of hers, “You’re a little off-putting but you’re not undeserving of love, Kiyo.”

It was a complete 180 from what Sister had told him his entire life. A new lesson coming in far too late. He had to earn love. He should’ve been crawling on his knees and pleading for affection, but now he was supposed to simply receive it? It sounded so incredibly fake. A fictitious tale told alongside gumdrop fairies and candy trees.

No place for someone of realistic standard.

No place for him.

“You’re far too kind, (Y/n).”

“Maybe you just haven’t known nice people,” she suddenly stopped, slapping a palm to her mouth and muffling against it, “I’m so sorry!”

“Worry not,” Korekiyo continued walking, “I’m unphased.”

Because maybe it was true.

Maybe Sister wasn’t so nice.

There was an itch at his skin in the thought and he shook his head.

Sister was kind enough to love someone like him. Who was of rotted soul and rancid heart.

“I shouldn’t have just said that, especially since I don’t really know your life…”

“Would you like to learn it someday?”

(Y/n) was fairly shocked at how quickly he seemed to breeze by her insult to his family and friends - well, if he had any friends - but she wouldn’t refuse. It was extra time with Korekiyo! Who could turn that down?

“I’d love to.”

“Tea and cookies,” (Y/n) pumped a fist in the air, “What could be better than enjoying those with a friend?”

Korekiyo felt his lips twitch up behind his mask at the rhetorical question, he reached out for his teacup, “Perhaps freedom from this killing game?”

“Oh, yeah, huh…” she deflated, “Jeez, I can’t believe I’d say that…”

Oh, great, of course, now he’s gone and made the local ball of sunshine in this school upset.

“Nevermind that, (Y/n), it was a tease…” he gripped the cup a little tighter, cheeks heating up in humiliation at his failed joke, “I apologize if it seemed like anything other than such.”

“No, don’t apologize, it’s fine! It was kind of a dumb thing to say, now that I put some brain into it,” so it made sense she’d said it, (Y/n) frowned at the bitter thought.

“Ah,” the clink of a cup against the table caught the girl’s attention, “I must change my mask in order to properly enjoy this tea and these cookies,” as the anthropologist went to turn, he was stopped by another outburst from the girl.

“No, don’t! Uh, here!” she clenched her eyes shut, papped her palms over her face, and turned her head downwards, “See? Now I can’t!”

“You don’t have to go to such lengths, I could simply turn- “

“No, no, I want you to feel comfortable and I heard once that doing things to make your friends comfortable is, like, a way to make them like you more?” she huffed at the wording, “Just, I don’t know… I want you to know that I care. Ya get it? No need to turn yourself away like that when I can just not look.”

A tuft of air passed through his nostrils at the girl.

Sister would adore a friend like her.

Korekiyo pulled down his mask, brows drawn tight towards his eyes at the new realization. It was no longer a matter of her being respectable, it was now the knowledge that someone as tender-hearted as (Y/n) would be loved beyond comprehension by Sister.

But… no. Sister couldn’t have her. She’d understand, right? Of course. She could have someone else - the other bubbly girl, what’s her name? Angie. She could have Angie.

Korekiyo just… he just needed (Y/n). Something about her was calming and sweet. He picked his mask for eating from a pocket in his uniform and carefully adjusted it over his lips so as to not smudge his lipstick. It wouldn’t anyway, he knew this, but it usually never backfired to be too sure.

The lipstick in itself was quite the hassle. Another homage to Sister that she might not even be seeing. So was the hair. It got tangled and knotted and was hell to dry after a shower.

“Not to rush you at all, but are you done? Cuz my eyes are starting to hurt… I think I’m squeezing them too hard.”

“Right, yes, I am.”

He really shouldn’t think like that… Sister deserved to be honored.

As if she’d been reading his mind, (Y/n) leaned over slightly, pointing at Korekiyo’s hair, “Hey, hey, how do you manage that? It always looks so silky and soft and well-kept.”

“Ah, well, it is quite troublesome most days, but with patience and rather expensive products, I keep it together.”

“I was wondering, too, do you ever put it up?”

“Not usually, though, that would be… nice on occasion,” he sipped at his tea, enjoying the way (Y/n) shyly glanced away to prove she didn’t want to invade his privacy. She was too delightful to be in a place such as this, even if he did enjoy the beauties of law-absence.

“Uh, I don’t want to come off pushy or like you have to let me, but if you want, I’d love to put your hair up! To be honest, I’ve been wanting to for a while,” her eyes widened at her own statement, “Oh, that sounded creepy. I’m so sorry.”

“I am hardly one to judge,” he reached over for a cookie, “But, if you’re so inclined, I won’t protest.”

“Yay!” she bounced slightly in her chair, “Oh, that’s great, Kiyo, thanks.”

“Shall we go to your dorm after finishing our refreshments?”

“I’d like that,” (Y/n) grinned.

And to think she almost didn’t approach Korekiyo on that first day in the school. How ridiculous could she have been to judge based on looks? Sure, he was a little strange and the way he spoke was unlike any teenager she’d ever met, but he was still a person. He deserved to be given companionship.

Besides, he’d only ever shown her kindness and support.

He didn’t even make fun of her when she said something stupid in front of everyone.

She cringed at the memory of every time Kokichi or Miu or Maki prodded at her. Even Ryoma and Kaito had picked on her when she misspoke during the first trial and just brought up a point the class had already proven. It made her heart wrinkle and shrink at the mere thought. Kokichi still made fun of her for questioning Tsumugi’s whereabouts during Rantaro’s murder.

“You’re staring into your tea, it will grow cold if you only look at it.”

“Oh, yeah,” shaking her head, (Y/n) silently cursed herself for spacing out. What an awful habit of hers, it was, “Sorry for taking so long.”

“You shouldn’t apologize, I’m not upset in the slightest,” he felt his heart lighten at the tiny smile that illuminated her face, “I simply enjoy spending this time together.”

“You’re too nice sometimes, Kiyo,” she giggled, but they both recognized the tingle of nervousness jumbling within it, “If you’re not careful, I might fall for you or something…”

“Maybe that wouldn’t be such a bad thing?”

I wouldn’t mind, she wanted to say.

If you’ll have me, he wished to murmur.

Then he felt his chest tighten.

“Can I…” he tapped a finger to the table, “ask you a question?”

“Of course.”

“Have you ever been in love?”

“Uhm,” she bit her lip as she thought back, “No… why?”

“How do you think it feels?”

“Like, you could be free and yourself around the person? I’m not too sure, but I think if you and someone else are in love then you’ll accept each other completely, you know? Sure, there’s flaws in every person, but I think you accept those, too.”

“I see…”

“Kiyo, why do you ask?”

“I…” his brows furrowed, “A lot has been on my mind as of late.”

“Alright, I won’t pry,” standing from the dining table, (Y/n) clapped her hands together, “Now, if you’re still down, I’d love to put your hair up!”

“As it stands, I am still, as you put it, ‘down’,” Korekiyo nodded before joining the girl and starting towards her dorm room.

“Nice!” she pointed directly ahead, “Now, onward!”

A total airhead at her truest, Korekiyo thought. He didn’t usually partake in the type, but something about (Y/n) just pulled him in tighter every time he tried turning away.

So, what’s the harm in giving in? Swimming against the tide only ever led to drowning anyway, so why fight it?

Sister… Sister was dead. Is dead. Resurrection isn’t possible and hasn’t been in human history. And she had changed so much of him. (Y/n) would never force him to bend to her ideal.

The more he thought about Sister in comparison to (Y/n), the more he realized that Sister felt like a ball and chain - and (Y/n) felt like a breath of fresh air.

Just her name inside his own head sounded as sweet as the best form of heaven.

“Here we are!” (Y/n) cheered upon their arrival to her room, “There’s probably a bunch-load of unfinished works in here so just… don’t judge them too harshly, okay?”

“I could hardly judge an unfinished masterpiece.”

“I don’t know about masterpieces…”

“If you create them with heart and soul, there’s nobody who can effectively say they aren’t except for yourself,” Korekiyo enters the room after her, legs carrying him towards her desk as she roots around her bathroom for a hairbrush and hair tie, “Sadly, this is also applicable to disasters with effort put into them. However, just from skimming these, I can tell you they are not such disasters.”

“Aw, thanks, Kiyo, you know - I know I’m the Ultimate Composer and junk, but jeez it gets so nerve-wracking when people hear my stuff. I like what I write, but who’s to say other people will?”

“I understand that. Showing others your work is extremely unsettling at times,” he followed the girl to her bed and sat between her knees on the floor, “I recall feeling that way when I would dabble in artistry.”

“You can draw?”

“I would when I was much younger,” he felt her fingers run over his scalp and through his hair and the weight looming over his shoulders practically melted off, “I haven’t held onto any of them, and they’ve likely aged poorly, but I know how I felt showing them around.”

“Why’d you stop? If you don’t mind my asking,” reaching around, (Y/n) threaded her fingers through Korekiyo’s bangs and, as gently as humanly possible, pulled the hair hanging over and around his face back into a slicked style.

“My… sister, she always rathered that I participate in anthropology with her. I wasn’t all that good anyways.”

“Aw, that’s kinda sad. Even if you weren’t good, you could’ve improved over time.”

“Do you truly believe that, (Y/n)?”

“Of course, I mean, talents are just developed over time, right? Angie didn’t pop out of the womb an art genius and I didn’t start off great at writing music, you just keep at it and eventually your skill level is way better than when you started.”

Sister always said he’d be garbage at drawing. Somebody like him could never learn.

She tied off and twisted until the bun was perfect - well, not perfect. It was presentable enough, and it was just a bun anyway! Not like they had anywhere to be.

“Sorry it’s messy,” she scratched at her cheek, feeling anxious that he’d be upset with her work.

“I…” he felt another little smile peek over him, it was indeed messy with stray hairs sticking out here and there and a few tiny bumps running over his head, but even so, “I love it.”

“You do?”

“It’s a gesture from you, why wouldn’t I?”

Standing beside Korekiyo at the mirror, (Y/n) twiddled her thumbs before spewing out her question, “It’s totally cool if not, but can I hug you? Sorry if that’s weird!”

“No… it’s…” Sister never asked to touch him, and now that he thought about it, she never seemed to care when he told her to stop, “That would be wonderful.”

As her arms slowly came around him, he felt truly at ease. With Sister, there was always this fear of never being what she wanted. That she hated him deep down. With (Y/n), it felt like finally being attached to someone you were meant to. Returning to a place of deep affection.

“You truly do care about me, don’t you, (Y/n)?”

“What kind of question is that?” she back-pedals, “I mean, of course, I do. You’re very dear to me, Kiyo.”

Maybe even a little too dear, considering the current climate of the killing game.

But even so, neither of them pulls away. Neither cares enough to wrangle themselves from indulging in the other’s touch. It feels too good against their skin.

It’s then that Korekiyo’s brain strikes the flint to create the burning thought - maybe Sister wasn’t all that great. Maybe Sister didn’t love him.

She’s only ever made him miserable, now that he recalls it all.

(Y/n) doesn’t. She makes him feel human and alive and adored. He likes the way she makes him feel. And between the two, he much rather would be praised than berated.

Oh God, what did this mean again?

Where do the creation myths go?

Who’s Princess Kaguya?

Her head throbs at the thoughts rumbling through her. She tried to get Korekiyo to get someone, anyone, but her to organize his notes.

Shuichi would love this stuff! You two should bond!

Gonta could learn about being gentlemanly from you! It’d be a great learning experience!

I know you don’t like Miu that much, but maybe spending more time together could make you understand each other more?

Anyone.

And yet, Korekiyo denied. He liked spending time with her. He wouldn’t mind answering every question she had - no matter how many times she asked it. He was a patient person, he could handle it.

(Y/n) looked at all the books and stray papers surrounding her alike, bottom lip tugged between her teeth in focus and face beating hot in vivid embarrassment. He wasn’t even looking at her, thank God, but still… it was so mortifying that she’d already lost track of what she was doing.

She tried so hard to pay attention, she really, really did!

She wanted to help so bad. She wanted to be useful so bad.

But she knew… she’s not a smart person, per se. It was beaten over her head repeatedly her entire life by her family, schooling, peers, and even her friends. She was an idiot who couldn’t do anything right.

It’s why she wanted Korekiyo to ask someone else.

But how could she say no to him? He was always so nice, it’d be downright mean to refuse him. Right?

She felt her eyes burn, vision growing blurry through tears. Setting down the papers in her hands - (Y/n) covered her eyes to keep any wetness from splotching the notes below. It was the least a fucking moron could do.

“(Y/n)? Are you feeling okay?”

Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck

She nodded shakily, just wanting Korekiyo to ignore her and continue his work. Better yet, he’d kick her out and she could dodge the incoming humiliation altogether.

“Yeah,” her voice cracked, lips trembling.

Goddammit.

She heard papers rustling before she could feel the presence at her side. Fingertips just barely grazing her body before hesitating back, “You’re lying.”

Understatement of the year.

“I just… I’m so sorry, Kiyo. I’m such an idiot, I knew I couldn’t do this,” she whimpered, desperately trying to grab and suffocate down her bubbling sobs before they wracked her throat, “I’m too fucking dumb to do anything right… I’m sorry…”

“No, no, don’t apologize. You’ve done nothing wrong and you’re no idiot,” he’s immediately slammed with every memory of every time he’s called her such a thing. No matter how nice he tried to be about it, he still aided her insecurity, “I’m sorry for ever saying you were. Intellect is not measured by how well you can do a task nor should everyone’s mind be measured the same. Intelligence is fickle and is spread over a vast variety of subjects. You’re not an idiot for not being able to do something you’re not accustomed to.”

“I just… I- I wanted to help you but then I forgot everything you said about organizing them and then which regions are which and what even is a gorgon?”

He chuckled quietly at her question, “A creature in Greek mythology most commonly in reference to three sisters - Medusa, Euryale, and Sthenno - with hair made of living, venomous snakes that turned those who so much as looked upon them to stone,” he glanced around at what (Y/n) had gotten done, “I see that the filing in relation to music is nearly completed for your half.”

“That’s about all I’m good for.”

“And I would not have managed that so easily, music was never an incredible strength of mine - though I do admire it.”

“Don’t lie to me, Kiyo…”

“I would never,” he moved his notes away to sit more comfortably next to the girl, “In fact, if you’d be willing to listen…” his throat tightened and heart thumped in his chest, “I would like to tell you of something that’s been troubling me for quite some time.”

“Yeah,” she wiped away her tears, sniffling, “of course.”

“I told you of my sister, correct?” he waited for her nod of confirmation to continue, “Well, it’s my belief that…” his fists clenched.

What if she didn’t believe him? What if she blamed him? How do you tell someone your older sister raped and abused you when you’re barely even coming to terms with the fact yourself?

“(Y/n), I…” he stopped, gut bunching in knots before he suddenly ripped down his mask and turned to face her, “I think I need help…”

“What? You’re just wearing lipstick, Kiyo, there’s nothing wrong with that.”

“No, no, no, no,” he shook his head, hands shaking wildly as he pulled out the ponytail (Y/n) had done up earlier and yanked through his hair, “E-everything I am is because of her! She consumes me even in death! She- she- she hurt me…”

“Oh,” the girl moved to sit up on her knees, hands reaching out but not yet touching him, “What happened, Kiyo? You can tell me, I’m listening.”

“She told me I was an awful boy, nobody but her could love someone so foul and creepy… she- “ he moved to grip his sleeves, “She touched me,” he looked into the girl’s eyes, “Is it my fault? Am I so disgusting? Why would she do this?”

“Do you want me to hold you or no?” at his shaky nod, she instantly took Korekiyo into a hug, cradling his head and shoulders to her body and stroking through his hair, “You’re more than what she made you. You’re bigger and better than her manipulation. And it’s not your fault she did what she did. It’s completely and totally on her. She took advantage of you, Kiyo, that’s not your fault.”

He grabbed her arm and pressed his face into her shirt as she held him, “Am I rotten? Am I lovable?”

“You’re the best person I’ve ever met. You’re worthy of love and care.”

His lipstick smeared over her shirt and across his cheek and neither of them minded. It would wash off eventually. Her stain on his life would come out.

“When we get out,” (Y/n) began again, “do you want to seek professional help? You can get it, Kiyo.”

He was slow to nod, beginning to grow tired from dosing out tears and trauma at once, “I do… thank you, (Y/n)...”

“No need to thank me.”

“(Y/n)?” she hummed quietly in acknowledgement, “Even if it isn’t for field work… I wish to travel the country with you. I want to show you the beauty of humanity as I know it… for our sakes.”

Looking down, (Y/n) caught the gentleness in his eyes, tender and soft and awaiting her response, she smiled softly, brushing back his hair, “I would love to, Kiyo. If it’s truly something you want to do, I would be happy to go anywhere with you.”

Nighttime was quickly approaching and with the atmosphere and turmoil of the class, (Y/n) didn’t feel very safe being out so late.

“You’re certain you don’t wish for me to walk you to your room?”

“No, you finish up here,” (Y/n) waved off Korekiyo’s offer, “Don’t be such a worry-wart, yeah? I’ll be fine! You better take care of yourself while I’m gone, though.”

He nodded, a small smile stretching over him, “I will, dear (Y/n), don’t worry.”

The girl’s eyes widened slightly before she returned his beam, “You have a cute smile, Kiyo.”

“Oh,” right, he didn’t have his mask on at the moment. It was refreshing to wake up and not trouble himself with makeup for a woman he wasn’t sure even cared - dare he say it, it was nice, even.

He’d only taken his mask off around (Y/n), it felt intimate. Sweet. Something passed only between them.

“Thank you.”

She nodded before turning back and pressing outward from his research lab, “I’ll see ya tomorrow, Kiyo! You better have the sweetest dreams, ya hear me?”

“You as well.”

He returned to cleaning up his lab, occasionally stumbling over a floorboard looser than the others. How troublesome.

That’s when her voice picked up from within his brain.

“You never loved me.”

He looked around despite knowing exactly where the voice was coming from.

“You let her do this to you. You let her take you from me.”

Pushing past them, he persisted in rooting through his notes and organizing his papers.

“She hates you. She’s scared of you. She’s just trying to be nice. You scare her. You scare all of them. You rotten, rotten boy. You’ve been ruined - only I could love a face so hideous and broken. A horrible, horrible boy lucky enough to be given the love I did.”

His hands shook, fingers twitching and heart thrumming heavy, “No. (Y/n) likes me. She enjoys my company.”

“Why would she enjoy the company of someone so lonely and depressing? So gross and foul? She probably hates you for partaking in your own sister’s touch.”

“No, she- she doesn’t… she knows it’s not… it’s not my fault…”

“Are you inside her head? How do you know? How are you certain? I’m the only one who ever loved you - and you’ve abandoned me. Left me all alone.”

“No, I- I haven’t abandoned you, Sister! Please, believe me, I never abandoned you.”

“So, you know what you must do to prove yourself to me.”

“(Y/n) wouldn’t like that…”

“(Y/n) wouldn’t like you anyway.”

She’s right, right? She’s right. Someone as wonderful and beautiful as (Y/n) could never adore him the way he does her. He loves her and she must find him repulsive. Staying out of fear.

Out of pity for the boy abused by his sister. And so, who better to return to than the more predictable of the two?

(Y/n) may have felt more like coming home than Sister - but Sister was home. (Y/n) was comfort. Sister was familiarity.

He found his foot planted against the loose floorboard once again. He knew how he had to make up for his misdeeds and abandonment.

“I’m truly relieved to see that you got to your room safely,” Korekiyo murmured to (Y/n).

“Huh? Oh yeah,” she pointed over to their local gentle giant, “Gonta and I crossed paths on my way and he wanted to walk me to my room and I just couldn’t say no to him. It’s nice to have someone you trust in this ‘game’. Well, other than you,” the elevator jumbled slightly as it dove down into Monokuma’s makeshift courtroom, “I trust you, obviously.”

She shouldn’t. And he wants to tell her that.

But as Kokichi and Shuichi take glances at him from across the elevator, he knows that she’ll figure things out soon enough.

And, during the trial, when Shuichi’s convicting Korekiyo of the murder of Angie Yonaga and Tenko Chabashira - she does. And she cries and screams and throws a fit. Demanding Korekiyo to fight back harder. Demanding Shuichi to stop lying and get serious. Because Korekiyo would never kill somebody.

He was nice. He was a gentleman. He cared about people. He had stolen her heart - and a man who managed that wouldn’t kill anybody. So, of course, Shuichi was lying.

“Do I have to remind you of what’ll happen if you don’t vote?” Monokuma bit out.

(Y/n) clutched at her hair - she knew what she had to do. But every time she went to vote for Korekiyo, her body wouldn’t let her.

Reaching over, the boy himself took her hand in his, “Allow me,” as he guided her hand over her voting panel. No matter how she swatted at his hand or tried to wrench herself from Korekiyo’s grip, he pressed her vote into his name.

She was forced to watch as he was strung up and spun. Made dizzy and sickly. She was made to watch as he fell into the melting pot. Fires eating at his body until he was no more than spirit.

As Monokuma and the sister who had harmed him so horrifically worked as one to rid the world of his soul.

Eyes went to (Y/n) as the execution subsided. Her sobs and hiccups drawing everyone’s attention.

Gonta was the first to approach, a large hand settling on the girl’s back as she cried, silently taking her into a hug.

Her heart wrenched, fingers squeezing at Gonta’s suit and throat rubbing raw with her wild wails.

He could’ve gotten help. He could’ve gotten out with everyone. If she’d just stayed with him then she could’ve done something. Angie and Tenko would be here. Korekiyo would be here.

“Alright, that’s enough,” Kaito’s voice peeked through, “Don’t cry because he’s gone, (Y/n). Move forward - for both of you.”

“I…” she shook her head, choking on a sob, “I don’t think I can…”

Shuichi placed a hand on Kaito’s shoulder, “Just give her a little time.”

As the group moved out of the courtroom, Gonta stayed by (Y/n)’s side up until she clumsily made her way into her dorm room.

Immediately, she collapsed into her bed sheets. Dreading tomorrow. And the next day. And the one after that. And the one after that. And so on. And so forth. Maybe she should’ve known better than to go around falling for a guy in the killing game. Maybe she should’ve held herself up in her room all alone.

There was no escape from this feeling. No hiding. It may get better over time - but Korekiyo would always be gone.

A buzz at the door caught her attention. Her movements were sluggish, honestly just hoping that whoever was there had given up and left by the time she finally answered.

Shuichi stood there, classically uneven, anxious smile and all, “I think there’s something you might be interested in? If you’ll follow me.”

No verbal response was given, only (Y/n) stepping out of her room and shutting the door behind her to give him her confirmation.

He began towards the casino. With a sigh, (Y/n) was about to tell Shuichi off - she didn’t need to start gambling to get over Korekiyo’s death - until he stopped in front of the building.

“I mostly just wanted you to get some fresh air,” he says earnestly before digging in his pocket and pulling out a key with a heart-shaped handle, “I got this from here. You can get your own or keep this one, I think you need it more than I do,” at her confusion he continues to explain, “It can take you into this weird dream-like state where you can see what ‘ideal’ you play in our classmates’ minds… I think you know who I gave this to you for.”

“Kiyo…”

“Yeah. You can see him again, if you want.”

She wanted to be strong and push the key back into Shuichi’s hand - instead, she just looked between him and the key in her hold and nodded slowly, “Thank you, Shuichi…”

He placed a hand on her shoulder, “Sleep well, (Y/n). I know you can grow past this.”

Because he did.

“I’ll try.”

But he wasn’t her. And Kaede was gone far before Korekiyo. And their grief was not the same.

“Thanks again, Shuichi.”

“Just take your time, okay?”

“Yeah, okay.”

Her knees felt like collapsing under the weight of her nerves, hand falling to the doorknob of the hotel room.

She pushed through her anxiety and found herself in a red-tinted room, a large heart-shaped bed in the center with a merry-go-round circling it. Then, she found Korekiyo standing to the side.

What would his ‘ideal’ version of her be? A friend? An out-of-touch acquaintance? A lover?

Her heart throbbed at the last possibility.

“Ah, my dear, back so soon?”

“Oh, yeah, sorry…”

“Why are you apologizing?”

“I’m, uhm, not sure?”

I’m sorry I couldn’t help you.

“Then don’t,” he seemed to glide across the room, taking the girl’s cheeks in his hands, “You’ve always had a problem with that, my love.”

My love? My love.

“Ah, yeah, sorry,” she huffed at her own word selection, “Oh…”

Korekiyo chuckled quietly, pulling down his mask to kiss her forehead, “I already took my medication while you were out.”

“Your medication?”

“Yes, from the doctor. You were the one who pushed me to go, have you forgotten?”

“Right! No, no, I just blanked,” she quickly lied, giving the boy a broad grin, “I’m glad, though.”

“It’s only medication, dear.”

“Still,” (Y/n) reached up to cup Korekiyo’s cheek, “it’s good that you’re following through with your meds.”

“Your support always helps,” he pressed another kiss to the girl’s forehead, “We’ll be leaving early in the morning tomorrow, I should warn you,” at her furrowed brows he explained, “In order for us to catch the first train to Iwate prefecture. Did you forget, darling?”

“Wait, wait, let me guess…” she waited for his nod before tossing out her suggestion, “We’re traveling for field work!” she was then quick to tag on, “As a couple that’s, like, super in love?”

“You didn’t forget at all, my love,” Korekiyo pulled away slightly, and sat on the bed, removing his shoes, “You play that memory of yours down too much. You’re far more intelligent than you think.”

“You think that?”

“Of course, I do. It’s not just because I love you dearly, either. You mustn’t let the words and actions of others control your opinion on yourself - you’re better than they say.”

This is his ultimate fantasy. He’s her lover. They travel and see the beauty of humanity together, just like what he said he wanted. He loves her. He thinks she’s so great.

He’s wrong.

She should’ve stayed with him that night.

He’s wrong.

She could’ve done so much to keep him with her.

He’s dead.

Because she should’ve stayed.

“Kiyo,” her eyes burned and began to soak, “I’m sorry!” her lungs rapidly expanded and contracted with her sporadic breaths, her hands clutching at her shirt. Her knees finally buckled and she collapsed to the ground, “I’m sorry! I’m sorry! I’m sorry! I’m sorry for being a stupid, stupid, stupid failure! Please… forgive me…!”

Korekiyo immediately stood up and rushed to (Y/n)’s side, bringing her into a tight hug as she fell to the floor, his fingers running through her hair. He kisses at her temple and cheeks, waiting until her cries settle enough for him to be audible in the room, “It’s interesting, dear, I first realized I’d fallen in love with you in a situation similar as this. I desired to comfort and reassure you just as I do now. You’re not stupid nor a failure, and I adore you above all else.”

Shaking her head, (Y/n) only began to cry harder into Korekiyo’s chest. This could’ve been their future. This could’ve been what they had to share and hold between only each other. If she’d only stayed. If she’d been with him that night.

“Oh, my dear, I’m sorry for upsetting you.”

“It wasn’t you,” she clamped a hand over her mouth, trying to keep back her cries, “I- I- it’s all my fault… it’s all my fault…”

“You haven’t done anything wrong, darling,” Korekiyo held her tighter, “I love you, my dearest (Y/n). No matter what you’ve done, I will always forgive you.”

And once again, her tears only came out harder. Her head pounding ruthlessly at the ache and consciousness fading out in her exhaustion. Korekiyo was dead. And no amount of her tears could ever bring him back.

#korekiyo shinguji x reader #korekiyo x reader #shinguji x reader #drv3 x reader #he deserved so much better :(( i wuv him #let me know if i miss anything with the warnings

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lonelyreputation · 4 years

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A/N: Woooo a long one! The idea has been on a stick note for three months and it’s finally here 🤧 It was a very fun one to write! I hope you enjoy it & let me know your thoughts! Ahh! 💥🥰💗

Summary: You’re a ghostwriter for a famous singer and Shawn is head over heels in love with the singer who he thinks writes her own music…But little does he know it’s you.

MASTERLIST | LET’S CHAT 🥂

Warnings: Few swear words

WC: 13.7K // Angst & Fluff

You sat on the edge of your seat, legs crossed, as you stared intently at the “famed” singer-songwriter who was reading over your lyrics. She shuffled papers back and forth either humming in distaste when she didn’t like a particular lyric, or slamming a lyric sheet down on the table for a song she wanted to keep.

This was the third album cycle you had done this for her––writing songs and pitching them for her to sing. All while you sat in the background and collected royalties off the copyright you owned.

When you were sixteen, you wrote a song that circulated around a publishing company, and she––Zilla––did whatever she could to have the song be put on hold for her. She was a newer artist, but you heard whispers that she bought out Kacey Musgraves in order to record your song.

It started with one song as a work for hire, which grew to an EP where you had copyright ownership, and then to a full album…Which led you to sign a contract with her management team as her ghostwriter.

You remember it clear as day––you in their office, with your own entertainment lawyer, as Zilla and her manager slid an NDA across the table. You remember the manager trying their best to not outright say that Zilla wasn’t talented in songwriting––She just spends so much time making sure her vocals are perfect that she doesn’t have time to write and everyone wants personal songs nowadays.

Zilla’s real name was Willow––but in order to keep the artist name the same as the songwriting credits––she picked a stage name. So, her stage name was just Zilla, and your songwriting credit would be listed as Zilla Greene.

While the public knew that Zilla was a stage name for Willow, they thought that she also wrote her own songs under the pseudonym Zilla Greene…But nobody knew how far from the truth that was.

The sound of papers slamming down on a wooden table snapped you out from your daydream, “None of these work,” Zilla leaned back on the couch and crossed her arms over her chest, “I want to change my sound.”

You had spent months crafting the songs in front of her. Carefully crafted rhyme schemes, imagery that was similar to the second album you wrote for her that won her three Grammys, it had an even mix of upbeat songs and ballads…And she didn’t want any of them.

Your mouth dropped, “But what––You want––Why?”

Zilla shrugged her shoulders and picked at her nails, “The last album was so…Pop,” she cringed, “Too colorful. I need to change it up––Keep listeners on their toes––I’m seeing this album aesthetic as more black and white.”

You picked up your little notebook and scribbled down aesthetics and moods she wanted to match. With each sentence she rattled off, you wrote down key words––songs that connect in a story, feeling lost, black and white, heartbreak––a bit of your soul crumbled as you saw the songs you worked so hard on lay abandoned on the table without a second thought.

“Give me an album that gives me a perfect score on Pitchfork.”

The pen you frivolously scribbled down ideas on dropped from your hand, “That’s––I can’t control Pitchfork!”

Zilla rolled her eyes and scoffed, “Then you better write a damn good album.”

“But you––Red!” You shouted out to grab her attention as you saw her packing up her bag, “That’s a nine. Literally one point away from a perfect score.”

Hiking her back over her shoulder, Zilla flicked her perfect loose curls over her shoulder, “Red was a good debut album, 1989 was a good Grammy album, I need something great.”

And with that, the “famed” singer-songwriter walked out of the room. The clacks of her heels were as loud as the sound of your heart shattering as you continued to stare at the songs on the table…That’ll never have the chance to see the daylight.

---

It was a new day and the sun shining through your half-opened window as the thin white curtains softly blew with the breeze. You were sat crossed legged on the floor in a little corner of your apartment that you claimed as your “writing room.” It wasn’t much of a room––because you literally sat on the floor––but it was where you wrote the best.

You sat in the corner, right under the window, on a small pink and teal woven rug, with a few throw pillows, and lyric sheets scattered all over the floor.

How were you supposed to create a whole new album when you had a perfect album already written?

With your head buried in your hands, you were at standstill, never having writer's block hit you this hard. You had songs already written––An album that was hopefully a 7 on Pitchfork’s scale––but it wasn’t good enough for her.

Nothing seemed to be good enough for her.

Your phone dinged with an email and you read the preview that it was just a Google Alert for Zilla. You ignored the notification, not wanting to think about how angry you already were at her…even though you were currently writing for her.

A melody slowly came into your mind as you started humming into a voice note. But it was quickly cut off short when you heard the stomps of Mia––your roommate––come running from the kitchen to where you were.

“Did you see this interview?”

You raised an eyebrow at her and directed your eyes to the strewn papers on the floor, “I’m a little busy?”

She waved you off and couldn’t stop smiling, “Shawn Mendes is like in love with you.”

The phone dropped from your hands, and you cringed because you knew that was going to sound horrendous when you played back the voice note. But that wasn’t what was on your mind.

“What?!”

Mia nodded at your shocked reaction, but then backed up with her explanation, “Well, not you––Zilla,” she made a little throw up noise, “But he loves your songwriting.”

“How––”

Mia shoved her phone into your face and you saw a paused YouTube video. In the video you saw Shawn Mendes sitting on a chair, holding a white poster board, as he was in the middle of ripping a paper off. He was doing a Wired Autocomplete Interview. You skeptically looked up at Mia, and she gestured with her hands for you to hit play.

So you hit play and immediately cringed at the sound of his nails coming in contact with the poster board as he ripped off the blocking.

“Did Shawn Mendes write a song on Zilla’s last album?” Shawn let out a small laugh as he shook his head, “I wish she would write a song for me.” His smile only seemed to grow as he continued talking about her, “She posted an acoustic clip of this new song she was working on––I’m hoping it’s on her new album.”

You felt a flutter of butterflies swarm your stomach because you knew exactly what song he was talking about. It was the chorus to a song called Cardigan, the first song that Zilla hadn’t turned down for the new album.

The video Zilla posted on her Instagram was dimly lit as she sat on the ground with her guitar. And while she frustrated you to no end…You couldn’t deny that she had a beautiful voice.

And apparently Shawn Mendes thought so too.

“Ever since her self-titled EP, I’ve been obsessed with her,” at Shawn’s words you looked up at Mia who mirrored your smile, “There’s just something so personal about her songs and I…” he looked down at his shoes before looking back up at the camera, “I’m fangirling, but I really admire her songwriting. I hope to write with her one day.”

He went to rip off the next question, but you paused the video, not wanting to hear the scraping sound again.

With the phone slightly shaking in your hands, you slowly picked your head up to look at Mia with a wide smile, “Oh my God.”

Mia nodded excitedly and jumped around in a circle, “Shawn Mendes likes––no loves––your songwriting! He’s so in love with you––He wants to write songs with you––He––”

You started to feel an overwhelming sense of pride as a jolt of joy was sent from the top of your head to the tips of your toes. Shawn Mendes––an artist that you admired for his work ethic––admitted to fangirling over your songwriting.

You were about to get up and dance around with Mia because it felt like a celebration, but with one look at the lyric sheets scattered on the floor…Your excitement slowly diminished. Because all of these songs––all of your feelings, your poetry, your deepest regrets and highest of loves––were going to her.

Zilla got the credit for your art.

People told Zilla that she inspired them to write songs.

And Shawn admired what he thought was Zilla’s songwriting.

You picked up the pen and twirled it around your fingers, clenching your jaw, as you casted a regretful look at the songs on the floor…They were your pride and joy, even the ones you didn’t like very much, because each song took a little bit of your soul and was then shared with the world.

“He’s in love with Zilla’s writing,” you sucked in a deep breath, “Not mine.”

----

Instead of your safe writing spot at your apartment, you were in the studio for a change. Since the only people who knew about Zilla’s secret were you, Mia, your lawyer, her manager, and Zilla herself…The record label still booked sessions for Zilla to write. So you found yourself in the studio a few times a month whenever it came time to write her a new album.

“How’s the album?”

You had been writing for hours and felt so exhausted that you should’ve been surprised when you didn’t hear a door open. But you were absolutely dreading this album writing process, you were creating emotions––trying to draw from real experience––but nothing was working.

You stretched your arms over your head, squinting an eye when you heard your back crack, and looked up at Zilla with tired eyes, “I have a few songs.”

Her mouth dropped, not liking the progress you were making, “A few?”

“It’s been two and a half months since you said you wanted a whole genre switch,” You snapped at her, “You’re going from pop to some sort of folk alternative––”

Zilla scoffed, “You did this before. Red was country and 1989 was pop. This shouldn’t be a problem.”

The two of you were in a glaring match as you set your pen down, “You demanded a seventeen song album––Do you know how hard that is with the soft deadline Columbia gave you?”

“You had songs written before––”

“Then why didn’t you take those songs?” It was a genuine question, but also a question you knew the answer to. And you were right when she spurted something off about wanting to change up her sound.

“People love me because I’m not predictable,” Zilla walked over to where you were sitting and picked up a lyric sheet, humming in approval before letting it slowly fall to the ground, “And the songs you wrote before weren’t good enough.”

“What do you mean––”

“It’s just writing a few songs,” Zilla huffed out, “I don’t see how you can’t do that between now and the soft release date.”

You closed your eyes and let your head fall on the back of the couch cushion. You brought your hands up to rub the inside corners of your eyes, “You want a heartbreak album––I’m not in that headspace and you also need to record the songs.”

You opened your eyes and immediately glared, “Do you remember how Rob Stringer nearly flipped because I still had to finish writing Clean but you lied and said it was just the backing vocals that needed to be done?”

As much as Zilla wanted to refute you, she knew she had no place, because what you said was absolutely true. That was not a fun phone call to be a part of with the C.E.O. of Sony Music––even if you were on mute.

“It won him Album of the Year at the Grammys,” Zilla said in an unsympathetic voice, “And this album is going to be better than that.”

You let out a very loud and exasperated sigh, “That won’t cut it this time around! At least I had some inspiration for that album, because I have none––”

“You’re crazy,” Zilla narrowed her eyes, “Just find a random person and have them break your heart.” You had your mouth open for a rebuttal to tell her that that’s not how songwriting worked, but she picked a piece of lint off her sweater, “You’re pretty…enough.”

You squeezed your eyes tight as you felt yourself begin to seethe at her. You started to feel a slight pain in your jaw with how hard your teeth were clenched together, but your eyes were still shut as you tried to simmer your anger, as your voice came out dangerously low, “Out.”

“You can’t kick me out!” Zilla laughed and you opened your eyes to look at the woman who had no respect for your artistry…Even though you were the one to give her a career in the first place, “I’m paying for your studio time.”

“No, technically,” you glared over her shoulder at the door, “Columbia is paying for the studio.”

Zilla huffed as she crossed her stiff arms over her chest, “No need to get so angry––”

You felt yourself becoming more angry at her presence. Her presence was driving you insane and you knew that she was being a nuisance on purpose––poking you like a bear until she got her desired reaction out of you.

“Out!”

She looked at you with shock written all over her face. You were never one to raise your voice at anyone, and you always bent over backwards to comply with whatever Zilla wanted. But not now. You only felt angry and crazy in her presence, and those feelings only intensified in you when she pointed out how crazy and angry you were acting.

Zilla left––you don’t know if it was after you screamed at her or if she stayed for a few moments longer––because for the first time in writing this album for her…You felt inspiration for a song hit.

You heard the light piano keys first, humming the pitch in your head, as the light sound of finger picking on a guitar creeped into the back of your mind. Fresh off your argument with Zilla, the chorus of the song came first. You channeled your anger into inspiration as your hand gripped the pen until your knuckles hurt.

You don’t know how long you were writing the song for, but it was almost finished––I’m taking my time––Oh, how you wished you could take your time with this album––Taking my time––Well, maybe you will take your time with this album and get her in trouble with all of her deadlines, even though it would technically be breaking your contract too––Because you took everything from me.

She took your songs away from you.

“Oh, Sorry I––I might be in the wrong room?”

You dropped your pen and slammed your writing journal closed because no one was supposed to be in this room. With eyes wide, your heart stopped, because there were papers all around the room of potential songs for Zilla’s album.

Lifting your wrist to look at your watch, you saw that you were eleven minutes past your allotted amount of time Columbia reserved. Immediately, you scrambled to get off the couch as fast as possible, crunching your lyric sheets in the process.

You shook your head, still not looking up at the person because you wanted to make sure all of the songs were in your possession, “You’re probably in the right room. I––I’ve stayed past my time just a little and I––This is most likely definitely your room––”

“Wasn’t Zilla in here before?”

You froze and gripped the song sheet that you were currently stuffing in your bag.

Shit.

Slowly, you took a deep breath, and looked up at the person who had the room reserved after you. And your already wide eyes doubled in size when you saw that it was Shawn Mendes standing in front of you. The guy you saw on Mia’s cracked iPhone screen a few months ago––fangirling over songs you wrote.

His knuckles were white as he gripped his guitar case––in what you assumed to be excited nerves––as his head darted around the small studio space, hoping to catch a glimpse of the singer-songwriter.

“Oh, yeah she––She was done like forty minutes ago,” you spewed out a lie, “And then she let me use her remaining time.”

Shawn’s shoulders sunk in disappointment, and his smile faltered just a tad, undoubtedly disappointed that he missed his chance to meet a songwriter he admired. But little did he know that songwriter he actually admired was standing right in front of him.

You never wanted to be in the spotlight, never liked having attention on you, and it’s part of the reason why you agreed to work as Zilla’s ghostwriter. But with how her career took off, her songs––your stories––were gaining much more recognition than you ever thought. And it was times like these that you wished you could tell someone––other than your roommate––that they were your songs.

“So…” Shawn rocked on his feet a few times, quickly breaking eye contact with you to look at the remaining papers on the ground, “Are you friends with her?”

You nodded your head as you bent down to pick up the remaining songs, stuffing them deep in your bag, “We’re like––Uh––Yeah, pretty good friends.”

How else were you supposed to describe your business relationship with her? In the beginning, you hoped it would be more of a collaborative experience––Zilla telling you stories about her that you could write into songs––but that wasn’t the case.

She didn’t want to do any work besides reap the benefits of traveling the world and having millions of people adore her.

He ran his free hand through his curls, following your every move of cleaning up your mess, “Do you sing?”

His question caught you off guard, “Pardon?”

Shawn let out a small laugh and gestured to the recording studio the two of you were in, “Are you a musician?”

You immediately shook your head, “Oh no, I’m––I write.”

“Ah, a songwriter,” Shawn softly smiled in appreciation as he went to set his guitar down by the other couch in the room, “Without people like you, us singers would be useless.”

“You write your own stuff. Not many people do that anymore,” you rolled your eyes at his compliment, “That’s a redeeming quality.”

Shawn shrugged his shoulders, “Yeah, I…I do write my own stuff. With some help obviously, but it’s rare to find that nowadays.” You nodded in understanding as the two of you stood in silence. He slipped his hands into the front pockets of his blue jeans as a smile lit up his face, “Except for Zilla. Now she…Wow,” he whistled low, “She’s a once in a lifetime artist.”

You felt your throat tighten up.

“Yeah, that’s…” You let out a fake laugh as you bit the inside of your cheek, “That’s one way to put it.”

Shawn eagerly nodded as he continued to talk about your least favorite topic, “Her words––Her experiences––It’s all so personal. Sometimes I feel like I’m eavesdropping or reading her diary,” He plopped down on a black rolling chair and his smile grew wider, “Now she’s someone I respect.”

And while you knew he was complimenting your work, he didn’t know it. The person who he thought he respected so much was in the music industry for all the wrong reasons. The person he thought so highly sent you a text on the day she got her first Billboard number one––a song that you wrote––and demanded a new song in a few weeks time all while she popped open a bottle of champagne on her Instagram.

You nodded your head, knowing that if you said something, it wouldn’t be what he wanted to hear.

“I’ll let you get to work,” you picked up your journal from the couch cushion and slipped it in your bag, “I’ve taken up enough of your time.”

You turned to walk out the door but Shawn’s voice called you back, “Hey––You, um…I think this is yours?”

Turning around, you saw Shawn looking down at a familiar white piece of paper with words scratched out and arrows changing up verses, “This is…This is really good…” he looked up at you, “I didn’t catch your name?”

“Y/n,” you rushed out as you snatched the paper out of his hold.

Shawn nodded his head and stood up from the chair, leaning over your shoulder to continue reading the lyrics, “Centennial park…” he scratched his chin, “Nashville?”

You folded the paper in half, shielding your story from his eyes, as you lied, “Different park.”

Still stuck on the song, your mouth dropped as Shawn yanked the piece of paper out of your hands, opening it back up to skim over, “Maybe in the bridge––The last line…” you reached out to grab your paper from him, but he held it over his head, tilting his head back so he could still read the lyrics, “Change string to thread? Change up the lyrics like you did with the chords.”

Once he got his thought out, he lowered the piece of music and you grabbed it back, glaring at him as you stuffed it deep into your bag, “These aren’t mine,” you said bitterly, because while they were your words, they would eventually belong to Zilla, “They’re Zilla’s. So I’ll let her know.”

Shawn’s eyes bugged out of his head, mouth wide open in shock, “You––You have her lyric sheets?!” His eyes quickly darted down to your bag. You pulled your bag closer to your side out of protection, “The things I would do to have whatever job you have. I mean––To be able to read her songs before they’re out? That’s––I will literally trade places for a day with you.”

You let out a weak laugh, wishing that you got out of the studio on time, “I’m sure your job pays much better than being her…assistant.”

Shawn’s eyes glistened with excitement, “You’re her friend, assistant, and you get to read her songs?” Shawn ducked his head as he let out a chuckle, “I’d do anything to be you for a day.”

You pulled your eyebrows together, but tried to keep your face neutral, “I’m sure you wouldn’t.” But his smile only widened as he daydreamed about being so close to someone you thought was cousins with the devil, “I should really get going.”

Shawn nodded in understanding but called your name out, “Y/n––I don’t know if this is too forward, but…I mean––You don’t have to do it––But could you give Zilla my number?” He didn’t get a chance to look at how everything about your appearance dropped.

You were stunned as your mouth hung open, your eyes drooped in sadness, shoulders deflated…But he couldn’t visibly see the weight that you felt like was dropped in your stomach. He picked up a pen you left on the table and scribbled his number on a sticky note and you couldn’t remember a time where you felt so defeated.

He tore the sticky note off the pad and handed it over to you as he blushed, “I’d really love to write with her.”

You’d love to write with me, your brain screamed at you. But outing yourself as Zilla’s writer wasn’t worth all the lawsuits you would face.

You swallowed the lump in your throat and numbly nodded, “I’m sure she’d love to write with you too.”

----

Two and a half weeks later you found yourself writing in the same studio. And while you normally felt cooped up when in the studio, it was better at being at your apartment. Ever since you told Mia about your run in with Shawn it was the only thing she talked about.

She told you that it was the perfect time to tell the truth about your career––bring that witch down once and for all––were her exact words. But you didn’t want to deal with the mess of breaking an NDA.

So the next time you saw Zilla, you told her about your run in, and unenthusiastically handed her the sticky note with his number. Her smile was as wide as his when you told him you worked with Zilla. And while Zilla portrayed herself as a down-to-earth singer who transcended all genres of music…She was nothing but the opposite.

And from your brief run in with Shawn, you knew he was completely opposite of Zilla in every way, shape, and form.

The sound of your phone ringing brought you out of your songwriting process, without looking at caller I.D., you answered, “Hi, this is––”

“Y/n.”

You sucked in a breath when you heard her voice, “I have half of the album written. I’ll send you the songs and then you can record them,” You doodled in the margin of your journal, “So that way we don’t get in trouble again––”

“No, stop––Shawn is on his way to the studio.”

You let out a bitter laugh, your grip around the pen tightening as it scratched a hole in the paper, “I’m sure the fans will be happy to see pictures––

“No. Shut up for a minute,” at her strict tone you straightened your posture, not liking the way she was talking to you, “He’s coming to you. Where you are.”

You were about to make a quip about how she should talk to you with a little more respect, but when you heard the news of Shawn, your mind went from lyrical songwriting to ultimate panic.

“What?!”

“And I’m like an hour away from you,” you heard a car horn beep on the other end, “God, I hate L.A.––But he––He wants to write songs with me––”

“But you don’t write your own songs.”

“Don’t I fucking know,” she sneered through the phone.

A victorious small smile crept on your face, “Then why did you agree?”

“We had lunch and I told him I had a studio time slotted and he just texted me that he’s ten minutes away,” Zilla said all in one breath as she honked her horn twice, “because he wanted to surprise me.”

“Not much of a surprise if he’s texting you.”

She honked her horn again, “Y/n.”

“Sorry, sorry…I just,” you looked around at the mess you created in the studio. There were your usual papers strewn around, empty coffee cups, some takeaway food containers on the table that you were too lazy to throw out, “I’ve been here for like seven hours and there’s no way it’ll be clean before he comes.”

“Well do something––”

“Y/n?”

At the sound of your name being said gently in the same room as you, instead of it being yelled at through a phone, you quickly hung up on Zilla and threw your phone to the other end of the couch. You snapped your head up, and like the first time you saw him, he had his guitar case clutched in his hand, knuckles white.

“Shawn,” You said his name carefully as you looked wearily at him, “Hey.”

He slowly nodded his head, “Is…” and you cringed when you saw him looking around the mess you created in the studio, “…Is Zilla here?”

“Oh she––she just––” you had to think of something quick, “Had to pick something up at the pharmacy and it’s a bit out of the way––and she––so she called me and wanted me to uh––keep watch.”

Shawn looked at you, letting out a confused laugh, as he tilted his head, “Keep watch in a highly secure recording studio where the rooms lock?”

You nodded your head, keeping up with your lie, “She’s very very protective of her work space.”

Again, he nodded his head as he took another look around the messy studio, “I can…see that.” He shrugged his shoulders at the mess and took a seat on the ground.

You gathered up some of the papers that were on the couch around you, and on the table, and on the floor, “She had to go across town so she’ll be some time,” you shuffled the papers together until they all lined up. You set them aside and flipped to a clean page in your notebook, “So like––Make yourself at home.”

In the midst of gathering your stuff up to leave, he called you back in, “Y/n,” you lifted your head up to see an amused smirk on his face, “Leaving your watch position in her studio?”

Your eyes widened, “Well, uh––You’re here now so like––I think it’ll be fine if you’re here, and if you have stuff to work on, I don’t want to get in the way––”

Shawn shook his head, “Stay.”

As if you were trapped under a spell, you set your bag down on the couch and sat on the ground across from him. You sat with your legs criss-crossed as he opened the lid to his guitar case, “So…” you started off slow as you watched him carefully pull out his guitar.

Once he got in a comfortable sitting position with his guitar, you saw him pluck some strings and adjust the tuning pegs. There was one string that sounded off and you couldn’t hide your cringe.

“That B is flat. It needs to be higher.”

Shawn moved on to tune the E string, “I think it sounds fine.”

Even though he was looking down at his guitar, you still shook your head, “Get your tuner. It’s flat.”

Shawn let out a playful sigh and picked his head up to look for his tuner. Once he found it in the case, he clipped it on the head of the guitar, “If it’s not perfect, I buy you a coffee,” he smiled at you, “And if it is perfect, you buy me a coffee.”

You only offered him a smile as your response, already knowing that he would be the one buying you coffee. And when he got everything set up, plucked the string again, he looked at the tuner and frowned. He started twisting the peg as he continued to pick at the string until the B string sounded like music to your ears.

Shawn lifted his head up, a small smile toying at the edges of his mouth, as he looked at you through his eyelashes, “Do we have perfect pitch over here?”

You smiled and shrugged your shoulders, not wanting to brag because you did have perfect pitch, “I like a cappuccino––light on the foam with an extra shot of espresso.”

Shawn laughed at your response and rested his arm along the body of the guitar, “Working on anything exciting?”

You saw him eye the small stack of papers to your left, “Um…” self-consciously, you moved the papers further behind you so they were out of eyesight for him, “No…Not really.” Shawn gave you a look saying that he didn’t believe you, but you flipped the question to him, “What about you? Getting some inspiration for new songs?”

On the outside, you wiggled your eyebrows in a suggestive manner, trying to lighten the mood with a bit of joking. But on the inside, you felt your heart squeeze and your lungs collapse.

And it crushed you even more when he ducked his head and blushed, “I’m sure she’s told you plenty.” You laughed, pretending like you knew he was talking about, but Zilla hadn’t told you anything.

“She’s just so…Not what I expected,” a part of your spirits lifted, hoping he had seen her for who she truly was, but that was diminished when you noticed the far off dreamlike look in his eyes, “I think it makes me like her even more.”

You breathed out a silent laugh, twisting your hands together, “She’s a tricky one. Always…always surprising people.”

Shawn nodded his head and slowly strummed the guitar, “I think I like being surprised.”

This time, you threw your head back in genuine laughter, but when you saw his confused stare, you coughed in the crook of your elbow, “Stick with her if you like to be kept on your toes.”

Shawn tried to conceal his smile, but you knew he was already enamored with Zilla, too far gone to be swayed by anything you could say, “I’ll take that advice.” The two of you sat in another silence, as he softly strummed some chords on his guitar.

“Enough about her,” Shawn offered you a friendly smile, “I’m having trouble with something––Partly why I wanted to see her in the studio––” he leaned over to his backpack to grab out his sheet music and handed it to you, “See, I wanna do this,” he tried playing a chord, “But it’s not––I want it to sound different.”

You snorted and laid the sheet of paper on your knee, “That’s a good way to describe something you want changed.” Shawn glared at you, and you rolled your eyes, “How about…Have you tried an arpeggio?”

“You definitely went to music school.”

You waved off his comment, “I’m sure you know what it is––just maybe not it’s technical name,” you pushed yourself off from the ground and walked over to grab your guitar. Having already tuned it when you got in the studio, you sat down and situated the guitar on your lap.

“It’s like; do, do, do, do, do…” You tried humming, but when his face was still confused you started to play one of the most recognizable guitar riffs, “House Of The Rising Sun, the opening is an arpeggio,” you continued to hum along with the notes as you saw everything click in understanding in Shawn’s head.

You continued to play the opening chords on loop, “It’s a broken chord. So that way you can hear the individual notes,” you explained, “Say on piano, you would play an arpeggio by just playing each individual key, and it’s the same on a guitar. So when you play it slower,” you slowed down your strumming, “You can hear them more individually.”

Shawn nodded his head in awe of his little music lesson.

“They’re usually played in either ascending or descending order,” you picked up the pace of your strumming, before placing your hand flat on the strings, over the sound hole, to stop playing completely, “They’re also pretty common if you play them in a triad.”

Again, Shawn only nodded, enchanted by the sound of guitar.

“How much do you charge for music lessons?”

You let out a loud laugh and set your guitar over to the side, “I think you’re probably good in that department, but just buy me coffee then we’ll call it even.”

Shawn eagerly nodded his head, “I’m holding you to that––So like, with an arpeggio, is it always obvious that it’s there? Or do you have to listen to it really really closely?”

“I mean…” you tilted your head to the side, trying to find wording for the answer, “I think they’re more common than people realize? It’s a bit technical, because you're consecutively picking notes on different strings, but if you listen really closely, you’ll pick up on the broken chords.”

Shawn nodded, eyes seeming to be unfocused on something behind you, “Broken chords…” he mumbled under his breath a few times.

Feeling a little unsettled with him staring off into space, you cleared your throat, and that did the trick to snap him back to reality.

He smiled and then nodded his head toward the lyric sheet he handed you, “And these lyrics…I can’t––” He leaned over and slid the lyrics across the floor so that they were placed in between you two, “Something’s off.”

You nodded your head, biting your bottom lip in concentration, trying to figure out the root of the problem. Because while the lyrics were good, and you were able to hear the melody he had written down in your head, there was something off about them.

“Your rhyme scheme,” you mumbled, eyes still concentrated on the lyric sheet, “It’s a bit all over the place. So I would just narrow that down, figure out if you’re doing an arpeggio or not, and you should be golden.”

When you looked up, you saw Shawn look at you with the same admiration he had in his eyes during your first conversation when he said how much he respected Zilla’s songwriting.

You broke eye contact with him and scratched the back of your ear, “But only if you want––I don’t––Zilla is probably the person you should ask about this––”

Shawn shook his head, “She keeps blowing me off whenever I ask for her opinion,” and when you brought your gaze back up to him, he looked unsure of himself, “I know I’m not up to her level, and she’s…nice, but she always seems too busy to write.”

The insecure downcast of his eyes, and shrunken up body language, was a look you knew all too well. He didn’t think he was good enough to write songs with her. And what killed you was that he thought that way because she kept giving out false hope to him. It angered you because if only he knew that he was actually writing songs with the person he admired, he would have a different perspective on everything.

You let out a sigh, knowing exactly how rejected he must feel, and slid the song sheet back over to him, “For a cup of coffee I’ll give you music lessons.”

Everything about Shawn’s demeanor switched like a light. His posture straightened out, eyes beamed with joy, and his smile looked to be a little too wide after just offering him music lessons, “Please.”

You shyly nodded your head, feeling heat raise up to your cheeks, as you pulled down your phone from the couch and handed it over to him, “You can put your number in and then we can find a time.”

“I really appreciate this,” Shawn said as he swiftly typed away on your phone, “I can’t even––”

“Shawn?”

The voice sounded like nails on a chalkboard to you, but you regained your neutral composure before Shawn had the chance to notice any change. You looked up to see Zilla in the doorway, glaring down at the two of you––with your guitars out and a music sheet in between you. Shawn quickly handed your phone back to you, his full attention captured by Zilla.

“Hey, Z,” Shawn waved at her, still sitting, “Y/n was just helping me write––”

“Was she?” She gave you a pointed look that was meant to be a silent yell at you to not help him whatsoever because it could blow both of your covers.

You nodded your head, standing up with your guitar, putting as much distance between you and Shawn, “I only helped a little. I told him you were the one he should go to.”

And with that answer, you still received a glare from her because of course she was useless in helping him with anything music related. You could never win with her.

He handed his lyric sheet out toward Zilla, “If you want, you can look at what I have––”

“Actually,” Zilla cut him off with a smile, “I thought we could get some lunch.”

Shawn looked down and tapped the screen on his phone, the light illuminating a small portion of his face, as he looked up with eyebrows scrunched together, “It’s five fifteen?”

Zilla clapped her hands together, “Early dinner then.”

When you looked over at Shawn, you could see that he was disappointed that Zilla––once again––brushed off his attempt to write. With a slump of his shoulders, you heard a barely audible exhale of annoyance come from him, as he packed up his guitar with a nod.

Once his guitar was packed away, he stood up and offered you an apologetic smile.

“Come on,” Zilla reached out her hand for Shawn to take, “There’s this really good sushi restaurant we can go to before it gets too crowded.”

And even though you could tell that all he wanted to do was sit down and write songs, when he looked at her, his smile was genuine. He melted right at her touch and his eyes softened.

His eyes flooded with admiration for her because he thought she was the one who wrote the music she sang. He looked at her like she was his inspiration to keep writing better music. He’s looking at her the way he should be looking at you, your mind screamed.

His eyes only added insult to the injury that started the day you signed your contract agreeing to be her ghostwriter.

“I’ll see ya for a music lesson later, Y/n.” Shawn smiled over his shoulder as Zilla dragged him out of the door.

Before Shawn looked back at Zilla, she shot you a smirk, as if she was claiming Shawn in victory. And in a sense, she had won whatever contest she made up in her head.

She won by becoming a household name, she won by not doing any of the grunt work of composing music, she won by having people do the work for her, and she won the heart of the second most famous pop singer-songwriter in the world because he thought she wrote all her own songs.

And just like that, with the slam of the door, you were left exactly in a position you found yourself in plenty of times before. You were left alone in a studio, with all of your songs, while Zilla pranced around with the newest person who caught her attention.

But this time, instead of both of you not caring about what the other one did, you could feel yourself being exiled from any part of her life that revolved around Shawn. And you knew she did it purposefully. She was threatened that your songwriting could easily sway Shawn away from her. She was threatened because she knew she couldn’t give Shawn exactly what he wanted; a partner to write songs with.

And just like every other time Zilla left you aggravated with too many feelings, you began to write a song.

----

You took your sunglasses off and squitend your eyes as you scanned the outside patio of the coffee shop. You were about to take your phone out, but when you saw Shawn stand up from the table and excitedly wave his hands above his head, you smiled and weaved through tables.

When you approached the table, he wrapped his arms around your shoulders and your smile widened as you brought your arms around his waist.

“My favorite music teacher,” Shawn hummed as he pulled away from the hug.

You were a little disappointed he cut the hug off short, but you had to keep in mind that he was somewhat kind of seeing Zilla. You tried to get her to define her relationship with Shawn, but she would just wave you off and say it was nothing serious or kept asking if you were jealous.

While you might’ve been a little jealous whenever you saw a low quality paparazzi picture of them out in L.A, knowing that Zilla kept lying to Shawn about her songwriting “ability” always made you sleep with a smile on your face.

Just like the past month and a half when you met Shawn for coffee for one of your “music lessons,” he was always there first. And like every other time before, he had your cappuccino––light on the foam with an extra shot of espresso––at the spot across from him.

Not wanting to waste any time, Shawn eagerly took out his songwriting journal and flipped open to a random page. He slid the journal over to you and a laugh escaped your lips every time you saw how chaotic his journal looked.

He had different color post-it notes sticking up from the top, corners of pages that were worn down because of how frequently he dog-eared them, and the occasional loose leaf paper that was folded up and stuck between two pages.

Taking a sip of your coffee, you leaned closer to his journal, trying to decipher the messy script that was his handwriting.

You leaned back in the chair, nodding as you took another sip of coffee, “I like it.”

“Just like?” Shawn wrinkled his nose.

Shrugging your shoulders you took another look at the lyrics, “I mean…It’s a compliment?”

Shawn let out a sigh and buried his head into his hands for a moment before looking up at you with a pout, “Something’s not right.” He leaned over the table a bit and pointed at the second verse, “I don’t know what it is, but something isn’t right.”

“I like it.”

Shawn crossed his arms as he leaned back in his chair, “No, there’s something you’re not telling me,” he glared at you, “You ripped apart my song last week and now you’re too quiet.”

You took another sip of your coffee to cover up the fact that you did think something was wrong with it. But like he said before, with the way you tore his song up last week, you felt a little bad. You didn’t want to make him feel like he wasn’t a good songwriter, because he had a way with words that you found yourself learning from.

He didn’t have quite as many songwriting awards as you, but you knew he wasn’t too far off.

With a sigh you offered him a weak smile, “You’re too vague.” And with your first point of criticism, Shawn leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table as he took out a smaller journal and began to write down what you said, “You’ve already had songs that have touched on feeling lonely, and you’re really specific in the first verse, but too general with the second verse…” you trailed off your sentence and pointed at some scribbles on the paper, looking up at him, “Why’d you cross this out?”

Shawn stopped his scribbling to see what you pointed at, and when he saw the lyric, his cheeks turned red and he let his curls shield his embarrassed face, “It’s nothing,” he grumbled, “What should I change it to?”

You shook your head, “Nuh-uh,” you gave him an encouraging smile, “What did you write?”

He shook his head and looked down at the table, “I don’t like it.”

Under the table, you lightly brought your foot up to tap his shin. You didn’t stop nudging his leg with your foot until you saw a small smile grace his lips when he shyly looked up at you, “I’m wondering.”

Shawn rolled his eyes at your poor pun and retaliated by nudging his foot against yours in order for you to stop teasing him, “It’s…” he shook his head, “It’s too embarrassing.”

“I’m sure it’s really not as bad as you think,” you smiled at him again, “If you tell me what the lyric was, I’ll tell you what I think you should do music composition wise at the end.”

He narrowed his eyes at you and stepped on your foot, “You’re evil.”

You let out a small laugh as you rounded your hands around the hot coffee, “I see your three starts next to it, I know that’s your little ‘I need help’ symbol.”

Shawn flipped you off and it only caused the small amount of butterflies in your stomach to grow even more.

With a deep breath, he looked down at his hands and started picking at a loose piece of skin, “I wonder…” He peered up to see your anxious gaze, but then diverted his stare back down to his hands as he tore up the paper napkin in front of him, “When I cry into my hands, I’m conditioned to feel like it makes me less of a man.”

You were in the middle of lifting your coffee mug up for another sip, but when you heard the rest of the lyric your hands froze mid-air. You felt rooted to your seat as you stared at his face that still hadn’t looked up from tearing little pieces off the napkin.

How did he think that that lyric was not good enough? That was something that you wished you wrote.

It was so vulnerable and honest and most of all, it was true to who he was. In songwriting, no matter how personal a person thinks their experience is to them, there will always be hundreds upon thousands of people who will resonate with your story.

That was something you learned and used to your advantage.

On Red, you fought hard for one particular breakup song to stay on the album that Zilla thought was too personal. She kept saying––No one will care about leaving a scarf at his sister's house…No one will connect with dancing around the kitchen in the refrigerator light…And absolutely no one has had anyone ever call them up again just to “break them like a promise.”

But you fought hard and it was the song that solidified Zilla as this generation's greatest lyricist. And it was also the song she performed on the Grammy’s when her debut album was nominated for Album of the Year.

Nervously, Shawn peaked up and saw the neutral expression on your face as you sat frozen. He ran a hand through his hair and reached a hand across the table to pull his journal back, “See? You think it’s stupid. I––That’s why I crossed it off. It’s too vulnerable and if people heard me say that?” He let out a somber chuckle, “They would think of me as less of a man.”

You pulled his journal back toward you and snatched the pen he had laying next to his other notebook, “That’s…Shawn that’s an incredible lyric.”

You re-wrote the lyric on top of where it was originally scratched out, “There’s so much strength in vulnerability. Not enough people––especially male artist’s––are comfortable with their vulnerability. It’s refreshing and amazing and what you wrote––That lyric…”

When you looked up from re-writing the lyric down in his journal, you saw that he was trying to contain his growing smile by biting his bottom lip. And this time under the table, when you brought your foot up to his, you gave it a single tap in reassurance, “It might be my favorite lyric ever.”

His voice cracked, “Really?”

You nodded your head, “It fits so well with the theme of self-discovery and being honest with yourself,” his smile widened with every compliment you offered him. You leaned back in the chair, arms crossed over your chest with a proud smile on your face, “I think you knocked it out of the park with that one.”

Shawn ducked his head again and went back to ripping small pieces off the napkin, “That…That means a lot coming from you.”

You bit the inside of your cheek as you felt an electric current jolt through your veins, “If that lyric doesn’t make the song I won’t listen to the album.”

With a laugh so loud that it caused a few coffee shop patrons to look at your table, you let a smile overtake your face as you admired how the corners of Shawn’s eyes crinkled in joy.

“I’ll keep that promise,” Shawn scratched the bridge of his nose as he came down from his laughter, “So…” He briefly looked down at his songwriting journal with a smirk before looking back into your eyes, “What should I do with the end?”

You noticed a new flame of confidence in his eyes as he pushed his journal toward you more. You let out a laugh as you looked at him with your eyebrows raised in excitement, “I’m thinking of a choir and horns…”

----

As your “music lessons” with Shawn continued for the next few months, so did your writing for Zilla’s next album. And unfortunately, Zilla and Shawn also continued to see each other. And while it was always a punch in the gut whenever Zilla brought it up, your conversations with Shawn were solely on writing and experimenting with different synthesizers for his new album.

With your contract that essentially hid you from the public, it was so refreshing to be able to collaborate with someone instead of writing by yourself. Even though you mainly just helped Shawn with a bit of writing and composing some music, it was an experience that gave you new inspiration.

You always thought you worked best alone, but collaborating with Shawn opened your eyes to everything you were missing out on.

It was all fun until Shawn approached you saying that he wanted to give you credit on his upcoming album. That was when reality hit you because there was an exclusivity clause in your contract with Zilla stating that you could only write for her. You tried to politely decline Shawn’s offer, but every time you saw him he brought it up.

It wasn’t until you told him you would stop your music lessons with him if he kept asking you.

The times after that, you could tell he wanted to bring it up, he was fair in wanting to give credit where credit was due, but you told him not to worry about it. Someone had been taking credit for your songs for years.

And soon enough the end of July came around and the album you wrote––Zilla’s album––folklore, was released to the world.

The public’s reaction to this album was more than you could’ve imagined. It started off as an album with no inspiration, just meaningless stories, but it morphed into an album that you held close to your heart. It had your true feelings, real experiences––that might’ve been exaggerated just a little––but it was still an album based on personal experiences.

And while it only got an eight on Pitchfork––two points off from a perfect album––Rolling Stones gave it a 4.5 out of 5 rating with possibly the most beautiful review Rob Sheffield ever wrote about your songwriting. You made sure to hound Zilla to send him a thank you basket.

It might’ve been your favorite album you’ve ever written, and while you sipped on a glass of red wine at the album release party, all you had to do was look over to see Shawn’s laughing face to know why it was your favorite album.

He was still clueless that you wrote the album.

He still didn’t get any of the signs you gave about being the true songwriter. It was always you writing with Shawn while Zilla pulled him away to go out to an expensive restaurant. And while he still looked at Zilla like she was the most inspiring songwriter of today’s generation…He was starting to look at you the same way.

The inspiration behind the album came from everywhere. It was mostly centered around your frustrations with Zilla and how most of your regrets lied with signing that contract at sixteen. No matter how hard you tried, it still felt like you wasted most of your potential writing for her instead of yourself.

But then Shawn came into the studio that one day. He came in and your perspective changed.

You took another sip of red wine as the opening chords of the 1 started to play around the small venue ZIlla rented out to celebrate the release. Bitterly, you took another sip of wine, as you looked at the boy who inspired the song and threw an arm around the person you despised most in the world.

If one thing had been different…If you were the person who rightfully got credit for your work…Maybe it would’ve been you he threw an arm around and pulled in close to his chest.

Your wine glass was still half full, but you tossed your head back to finish it off. And when you brought the glass down, you saw Shawn turn his head toward you and offer you a wave.

You tightly smiled back at him and whirled around to the bar to get yourself another glass of wine.

You took full advantage of the open bar Zilla provided and another glass of red wine was placed in your hands. And as you tasted the alcohol hit the back of your throat, you couldn’t keep your eyes off of them.

If only all of your wishes came true.

----

“And we’re back!” James Corden cheerily smiled at the camera before turning to face the three guests sitting on the couch.

You were backstage watching with Shawn as the crowd clapped at the “return” from the commercial break. While you never went with Zilla to any of her interviews, you started tagging along to them to fit your “assistant for Zilla” cover story you told Shawn.

And with folklore released just a few weeks ago, you had accompanied Zilla on more than enough of the press tour. You were back in L.A., which eased your spirits a little, but it didn’t ease the bubble of animosity that you felt toward Zilla every time she talked about her experience writing folklore.

“So, Zilla,” James started off, “Congrats on the new album––folklore.” Everyone cheered and a smile lit up her face as James continued to praise her songwriting, “I’ve got to say, it’s probably my favorite album of yours. It’s so different than anything you’ve ever written before.”

Zilla crossed her legs and folded her hands on her knees, “It was…It was a totally different experience writing this album, and when inspiration hits you just have to get it all out…”

As Zilla went on about her fake inspiration for the album, you tuned her out. You could care less about what she thought the songs meant, but when you heard James bring up a little segment he wanted to do with Zilla, you felt your heart jump to your throat.

James deviously smiled, “As one of the greatest songwriters of our generation––Oh, stop blushing you know you are––I think we should play a little game.”

Zilla let out a small laugh, “Oh?”

Even though you couldn’t stand her, you knew when she was nervous. Her foot started to bounce and she ran a hand through her hair as she quickly looked down at the ground.

And before James explained his little game, you felt someone rush past you with an acoustic guitar in their hands. You felt your stomach churn with anxiety because Zilla had already performed on the show, and she was the only musical guest on the show.

The crew member rushed on stage to hand the guitar to James and then quickly ran off. Your eyes widened and you felt your breath come out short.

“We here at the Late Late Show are obsessed with folklore––and even more obsessed with your songwriting.”

Oh no.

James handed the guitar to Zilla who took it with shaky hands, “And we challenge you to write a mini-song. Right here,” The crowd cheered, “Right now.”

Oh no.

Your jaw dropped the same time as Zilla’s and she whipped her head to look backstage at you with petrified eyes.

“Oh, James…” Zilla nervously laughed as one of her hands gripped the neck of the guitar, “You can’t just write a song in that amount of time.”

One of the guests spoke up from the couch, “But earlier you said that it only took you seven minutes to write the chorus of hoax.”

But there was a small little detail that everyone was missing. It didn’t take Zilla seven minutes to write the chorus to that song…It took you seven minutes to write it.

Zilla glared at the guest, “It needed some tweaking after––”

James let out a loud laugh and waved her off, “Oh stop being modest,” he then turned in his seat to face the audience and speak into the camera, “After the break we’ll have a brand new little song from singer-songwriter, Zilla!”

The crowd erupted in cheers while both you and Zilla stood frozen in place. Never in your wildest dreams did you ever think Zilla would be in this position. Before every single interview or T.V. appearance, Zilla had her manager carefully pre-screen all of the questions and segments she would be part of to make sure nothing like this happened.

“This is exciting,” Shawn bounced on his feet, and for a moment, you forgot that he was standing next to you, “She always changes topics whenever I try to talk songwriting with her.”

This was definitely not an ideal situation for either her or you.

“That’s…” you looked around to see the audience excitedly talking amongst each other. You heard one girl in the front row say how she couldn’t believe she was going to witness the Zilla write something in front of her. You were beginning to feel increasingly hot with ever second that passed, “That’s one way to put it.”

“And we’re back!”

Zilla’s head whirled around again to look at you, but you turned your head to the side to try and find the nearest trash can in case you threw up.

“Zilla…” James started off with a smirk, “You just sat here looking off to the side…I’m hoping you heard the music in your head.”

The audience laughed, Shawn laughed, and Zilla just sat there in silence.

“Well, go on then,” James gestured to the guitar, “Play us what you wrote.”

At least Zilla knew how to play the guitar, and she started off strumming a random chord as she let out a shaky breath before singing.

“Oh…You make me feel like the sky…So…Blue,” you visibly cringed at her lyrics and were reminded as to why you were hired. But as she continued to sing, you started to feel more and more nauseous, “Oh…I wish you made me feel like…The sun, so bright and…Yellow.”

Everyone was silent.

You couldn’t keep your eyes off her as she still had her eyes shut tight. You knew exactly how she was feeling; embarrassed, nauseous, and utterly humiliated. You took a peak at Shawn and saw that his mouth tugged down in a frown, lips slightly parted, with his eyebrows furrowed together in confusion.

James’s stare was blank before he let out a forced chuckle, side-eyeing the audience, before he turned his attention back to Zilla, “Nice warm up, but now, let the magic flow and sing us the real song.”

Zilla opened her eyes and took in a deep breath, “That––I told you––You can’t push inspiration.”

James nodded his head, eyes wide in surprise at how Zilla snapped at him. Zilla was always poised, always charming everyone in the room, and never had she ever snapped at anyone in public before. Her jaw was clenched and you saw her shoulders tense up.

“I––I get that,” James tried his best to de-escalate the situation, “But you––your songwriting––You’ve always been so vocal about how you can write so fast, even without inspiration––”

You were surprised Zilla hadn’t snapped the neck of the guitar in half with how strong her grip was on it. She glared at James, “Well, I’m just not feeling it today––”

“I could’ve written something better,” the guest next to her laughed, which caused the audience to laugh along with them, as they continued their teasing, “Might need to take away your songwriting achievements––”

Zilla snapped her head to her right, turning her anger away from James, to the unknown actor who sat next to her, “I hired the best songwriter in in the business. She writes only the best for me––”

“––Because what you just sang was horrific.” They finished off their sentence.

For the third time tonight, you froze. All of the second-hand embarrassment you felt when she sang disappeared and was replaced with absolutely nothing. You had no thoughts––You just felt empty. You only had a feeling of absolute devastation, paired with a slight ringing in your ear, as your throat closed up.

You thought that her revelation couldn’t be heard by the actor talking over her. You thought that no one caught her slip up. But with the stunned look James had on his face, a few audible gasps of confusion from the audience, and Shawn stiffening up next to you…You knew that she blew her own cover because she didn’t know how to keep her cool.

James cleared his throat, “Your…Songwriter? You have someone else write songs for you?”

Zilla’s mouth formed a perfect ‘o’ as she realized her mistake, and her face lost color, “Well, no––Of course not––It’s me––I’m my own songwriter––”

The other guest to Zilla’s left let out a snort, “There’s no way you wrote exile––”

“And we’ll be back after the break!” James interrupted the trio on the couch before Zilla completely lost her head.

Right as the studio lights lit up more of the room, Zilla tore off her mic and stormed off the stage. Her hands were balled tight into fists as you could visibly see her face turn a darker shade of red with each stomp she took toward you. You felt your heartbeat stop as you noticed her fiery glare was tunnel visioned toward you.

“She––You write her songs?”

Oh, shit.

For a moment, you forgot that Shawn was standing next to you because all you were focused on was the death glare Zilla continued to shoot your way as she walked toward you. You had been at the end of many of her glares, but nothing compared to how she looked at you now. Everything she had built her career on was crumbling and you knew she was going to blame you.

You rapidly shook your head, and when you looked up at Shawn, all you saw was betrayal and sadness, “No––Of course not––How’d you ever come to that conclusion––”

“You’re always in the studio when she’s supposed to be there,” Shawn cut you off, “She never wants to talk about songwriting while you––we’ve––been writing songs together,” his eyes widened as you saw something click in his mind, “Invisible String…” His voice tapered off as he mentioned the song, “You––You said you were just holding onto it for her.”

As you felt your heart plummet down your throat and into your stomach, you continued to shake your head, “I was just holding it on for her––It’s not––I––”

“I gave you a suggestion to change a lyric and it…You changed it,” his eyes that were full of despair suddenly narrowed at you.

Your voice cracked as he took a step away from you, “Shawn––”

He shook his head, “You lied––”

“This is all your fault,” Zilla shouted at you as she took hold of your elbow, spinning you away from Shawn to face her wrath, “If you could’ve––”

“How is this my fault?!”

Zilla shook with anger as you saw fire in her eyes, “It’s just––You,” she stomped her foot as she continued to throw her tantrum, “It’s all your fault! If you hadn’t been so caught up in writing with Shawn you would’ve been more focused on me. Because newsflash,” she took a step forward, “You still work for me.”

“You––Y/n? So she is your ghostwriter?”

Zilla’s eyes widened because she forgot that Shawn was also backstage with you. And she basically just confirmed everything she tried so hard to deny when she was on stage.

You were long forgotten as Zilla turned to face Shawn. She tried to take hold of his hands, but he shook her off and took a step back, “It’s––We have a partnership––We both write–––”

“You take credit for the songs that Y/n writes,” Shawn said it more as a statement than a question, but his voice was still one of disbelief.

Zilla’s face crumbled. She knew the only hold she had on Shawn was that he thought she wrote all her own music, “Shawn––”

“Zilla,” her manager came rushing toward her with panic written all over their face, “This––This is bad. We need to do some serious damage control––”

“The show––It’s pre-recorded,” Zilla hastily said, “Can’t we––Is there any way we can pay them to edit it out?”

Her manager grimaced as they shook their head, “Someone had their phone out, recorded the whole thing, and posted it to Twitter.” Zilla let out a noise that was a mix between a cry and whine, “Billboard already has a whole article written. TMZ is having a field day…” Her manager rubbed their temples, “It’s really not looking good.”

This time, Zilla did let out a soft cry as she tilted her head back to look at the ceiling. Everything she built her career on––The authenticity of songwriting––It was over.

“And you,” her manager gave you a disinterested look, “You should probably leave. If people saw you two together they might think––”

“Loud and clear,” you grumbled at them, not feeling the least bit sorry that Zilla had a meltdown on television and that it was all on video. This was the Zilla you knew. This was the “famed” singer-songwriter you had to deal with for years. She was rude, nasty, and the most self-centered musician in the industry.

With a deep breath, you were about to turn around and leave, but if this was how they were treating you after everything you gave up for her, you wanted to make one thing clear, “Don’t ever come to me asking for another song again.” You angrily breathed out, “You’ll be hearing from my lawyer as I expect that she,” you glared at Zilla, “Violated some term in the contract by admitting to having a ghostwriter.”

You whirled around, hoping that would be the last time you saw Zilla until you had to meet again to officially terminate your contract. When your back was facing her––all you heard was her crying––but you couldn’t find the one person who deserved an apology.

Shawn was gone.

----

Two months after the public meltdown Zilla had on James Corden, people were still trying to figure out who the ghostwriter was. But unlike the day you signed the contract at sixteen, there was an extra person who knew that you were Zilla’s ghostwriter. Shawn was added to the list of you, your roommate, your entertainment lawyer, Zilla’s manager, and Zilla herself that knew your secret identity.

Zilla had come out with a tearful apology less than twenty-four hours after multiple music publications came out calling her a fraud. And the next time that you saw her in person was with your entertainment lawyer to terminate the contract. When the contract was labeled “null and void” it felt like the chains Zilla had around your wrist were broken.

And ever since Zilla confirmed she’d been working with a ghostwriter in her tearful YouTube apology video, the internet had not stopped searching. In her video she said, “out of respect to the writer I worked so closely with over the years, I’m not revealing their identity.”

It was a low blow. Because everything about that sentence was a lie. The two of you never worked close together on any songs and you knew she had little to no respect for you. She made that clear during the years you worked for her.

Even after everything…You still liked the anonymity that came with the deal. Especially now, if you were to come out as her ghostwriter, you would have the attention of the world. And while you wanted credit for your work, you didn’t know if you were ready to be put on that stage yet.

But the thing that killed you the most was not being able to explain everything to Shawn.

He hadn’t responded to any of the messages you left him. You felt a pang of pain in your chest whenever you pulled up your messages with him and read back through your texts. You listened to the voice notes he sent you a three in the morning when he was struck with inspiration and you mourned the ridiculous selfies he sent you.

You had taken up a hobby of cooking complicated recipes, that needed your full attention, to keep yourself from hyperfocusing on the regret you felt by not explaining the situation to Shawn sooner. As you put the beef wellington in the oven, coming to a painful understanding that you would probably never hear from Shawn again, your phone dinged on the counter.

Two months after not hearing from him…He sent you a text. It was simple, and to a stranger looking in on your friendship, they wouldn’t know what it meant. But you understood it loud and clear.

Music lesson in twenty?

You yelled out to Mia––telling her to keep an eye out on the oven––as you grabbed your keys and dashed out the door. After you buckled up, you sent him a response––of course––and broke about every traffic law in the book as you raced to the coffee shop you always had your “music lessons” at.

Your park job was pitiful, but it didn’t matter, because you made it to the coffee shop in a record thirteen minutes with only one person on your mind. Automatically, your feet carried you through the coffee shop and to the back patio. You were about to sit at an empty table when you saw that your music partner was already sitting at one.

He was slumped down on the chair, arms tightly crossed over his chest, and even though he was wearing sunglasses you knew that he saw you enter. But unlike all the other times you had your music lessons, he didn’t jump up and wave his hands above his head.

Like routine, you weaved through the tables until you got to him.

You stood in front of him for the first time since the James Corden incident, and even though you could feel the irritation he felt toward you…You noticed two cups of coffee on the table. He had his usual black drip coffee and there was a cappuccino.

“Light on the foam with an extra shot of espresso,” Shawn mumbled.

You didn’t know what to say. So you didn’t say anything. You promptly sat down and circled your hands around the mug. Because even though it was October, you still felt cold in California.

The two of you sat in silence for a few moments longer; Shawn was still slumped in his chair while you sat with perfect posture, wanting to be ready for anything that came your way.

It was a silence that came when two people understand each other.

You let out a sigh as you looked at the latte art this particular coffee shop was known for, before you looked up at him with wide apologetic eyes, “I––I know saying sorry isn’t enough of an apology.” Shawn stayed slumped as he nodded his head. You saw your reflection in his sunglasses and gulped, “And not telling you because I was contractually obligated to keep quiet about being her ghostwriter…” you let out a pathetic laugh, “Just sounds shallow and shitty.”

“Why’d you do it?”

Why did you do it?

Truthfully, you didn’t think you had it in you to captivate the attention of record labels and you didn’t think you were interesting enough for a fanbase. Your plan was to hopefully get a publishing deal, write songs for that specific music publishing house, and have various artists cut your songs for their albums. But then you caught Zilla’s attention. And just like how she was with everything else in her life, she was selfish and wanted your talent all to herself.

Wanting to stall before you answered, you picked up the cappuccino and took a sip, but even beneath his sunglasses, you could feel his hard stare on you.

You sighed, “I––I didn’t like the idea of being in front of people. I was sixteen, didn’t want to be pulled away from home, and I felt like I was better suited for writing and not performing.”

You tapped your fingers on the side of the ceramic mug, “And before I knew it…Zilla heard one of my demos floating around a publishing company, liked it enough to cut it, and then it turned into signing a contract with her to be her ghostwriter.”

Shawn shook his head as he leaned forward, taking off his sunglasses, tired eyes staring straight into yours as he rested his elbows on the table, “Why’d you let her pretend that she wrote your songs?”

Shawn briefly covered his face with his hands, before looking at you with a pained expression, “As a songwriter, I can’t…Just thinking about someone else claiming my feelings as their own?” The look he gave you made you want to hide in a cave for the rest of your life, “Why did you do that?”

You sucked in a breath and shrugged your shoulders, “I––I’m not sure.”

He nodded his head, not because he understood your answer, but in understanding that he wasn’t going to get anything else out of you.

“How’d you do it?” He stared straight into your eyes, not backing down until he got this answer out of you, “I looked at the songwriting credits and they were all under her name. I searched every performing rights organization database and saw that she––you––whoever––was with B.M.I. And I called the people I knew there and they said that they didn’t have anyone by your name.”

He let out a defeated sigh, “The only person they had registered for her songs,” the fact that he couldn’t even say Zilla’s name had you smiling just a tad, “Was a Zilla Greene.”

You nodded with a sad smile, “That’s me.”

Shawn tilted his head and scrunched his eyebrows together, “No, that’s not––Zilla Greene––That’s Zilla, not you––”

You shook your head and held up a hand to him, he quickly stopped talking and let you explain, “When Zilla approached me to be her ghostwriter, it was her manager’s idea to have Zilla––whose real name is Willow––perform under a stage name that synced up with a pseudonym for me.” Shawn slowly nodded his head, “So that way if anyone were to look at the songwriting credits and search her up on a database,” you gave him a pointed look, “It would just look like it was still her stage name. First name, last name, and all.”

Shawn let out a small laugh of disbelief, “I can’t believe you pulled it off for years.”

You shared his laugh and took a sip of your coffee, feeling a small sense of dread in your stomach, “And it would’ve kept going on if she didn’t practically admit it on James Corden.”

The atmosphere went back to feeling tense.

“So, are you…” Shawn lifted his head and looked at the people sitting around them, before he leaned into the middle of the table, whispering, “Still her ghostwriter?”

You let out a small laugh as you shook your head, “She technically broke our contract so, no,” you genuinely smiled for the first time when talking about Zilla, “I don’t write for her anymore.”

Shawn took a sip of his coffee before he mirrored your smile, “All this time…” He looked at you with a hint of remorse, “Whenever I told you how much I wanted to write with Zilla,” he smiled sadly, “I was actually writing with her.”

You nodded your head, “Don’t feel bad,” you waved him off, “I knew the whole time that it was me you wanted to write with.”

Shawn rolled his eyes and lightly nudged his foot against your leg under the table. At the gesture, you didn’t try to hide the blinding smile that overtook your face.

“I was literally fangirling over you in front of you,” he briefly looked down at the table, letting out a chuckle, before looking back up at you with soft eyes, “And I didn’t even know it.”

You smirked, “Don’t worry, it still boosted my ego all the more.”

Shawn let out a loud laugh as he flipped you off just when you were about to take another sip of the drink he bought for you.

“So…” Shawn started off slow, briefly breaking eye contact with you, “I’m not sure if you’re comfortable with it yet, but I…I’d be honored if I could credit you as a songwriter on my next album.”

After years of being brushed under the rug, years of someone taking advantage of your feelings for their own monetary benefit, having Shawn saying he would be honored to credit you––actually you––for your work…You felt yourself get choked up at the thought.

You sniffled, trying to hold back the small tears of joy you felt behind your eyes in, “I would really appreciate that.”

Shawn’s smile was wide as he nodded once at you, before he leaned over to reach for something under the table.

He pushed his songwriting journal over towards you and opened it up to a page with music notes. You looked down and his messy note placement as you heard the composition in your head.

“So, I’ve been practicing arpeggios,” you looked up from the journal to see a sheepish smile on his face, “And while the sound of broken chords sound really cool,” and again, under the table, he brushed his foot on top of yours, “I’d like it better if the chords were together.”

You smiled as you felt a familiar warm feeling in the pit of your stomach cause a shiver to run through your whole body.

“Together,” you repeated his words that most definitely held a double meaning, “I think I’d like if the chords were together, too.”

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batarella · 3 years

Text

3 birds 1 stone - RED

Never has he smiled for so many days, happiness without condition, love so pure, a life that no longer was filled of days he’d have to survive, and was now a life he wanted remember, love, and live.

WORDS: 7791 WARNINGS: Sexual Content, Mentions of Trauma

MASTERLIST | 3 BIRDS 1 STONE MASTERLIST | BLUE | YELLOW

-----

“I loved her against reason, against promise, against peace, against hope, against happiness, against all discouragement that could be.”

- Great Expectations, Charles Dickens

You:

“Y/N?”

On peaceful days should there be chaos to be expected. With peace does not come promise. A flower with blooming red petals would eventually wilt, despite all else telling it not to. That same blooming flower would die the same from other natural, unnatural causes, like a wind too strong for it to hold onto its stem or a butterfly that came too late for its pollen.

But when peace was current, something you could see right before you knowing it wasn’t to last, it wasn’t much because of the artist you were why you’d resort to capturing that peace onto your canvas and make it last forever.

Two artists, that was. Someone joined you in your endeavor that day. Not so much of a student as he were a companion. An equal, perhaps.

Damian didn’t let his squinting eyes from where he placed the tiniest round brush on, the fabric that turned blue at his touch. You merely hummed at his call of your name and didn’t look to him as well.

“May I ask you a question?”

“Sure.”

Two easels set up at the manor’s back porch angled just right for most of the city skyline to be seen. It was far too small to be the focus, but everything else, the valleys that surrounded it, the actual forests going against the concrete ones, if you managed to get it right, you might want to keep this one for yourself.

Your thoughts complete left all that matter, however, when Damian asked you, “It’s a question about sex. More than one actually.”

“Oh.”

Not what you thought.

You might have had a lymph node in your neck, but still you nodded.

“Alright then. What do you want to know?”

He was painting the clouds. Didn’t even look the slightest bit uncomfortable. Good, you guessed.

“How old am I supposed to be before having it?”

Some wordless mutter rolled out your tongue at that. Eventually, the answer just came right out of you.

“Other than being of age, it really depends if you’re emotionally ready for it, Damian. If you know you’re not ready, nothing should push you to do it.”

“How do I know when I’m ready?”

That same calmness, the one that steadied your often shaking hands, allowed you to create the perfect cone for one of the hilltops at the horizon. You marveled over it for a while.

“When your doubts are encompassed with everything else,” you said. “When you know about what comes after.”

A dimming yellow sun, over at the far end. It was that sun, you told yourself, that was making those words fall of your lips. And not at all this series of resurfacing memories.

“When you meet the right person,” you told him.

You saw from your side eye how that remark made Damian stop with his brush. He set it onto its holder, placed his hands on his knees. “Other people don’t wait for that last one,” he said. “Do they?”

“It’s always different for a lot of people. Sometimes, they could only ever do it with people they love. Sometimes, it doesn’t even matter.”

“When I have sex with someo-“

You gave him a dirty look.

“When I’m a lot older,” he scoffed. “And I want to engage in the act of coitus.”

“Coitus?”

“How do I know they’re right? They’re the right person at that moment, then suddenly the next, they’re not.”

You reached over his easel to grab his brush, handing it back as you pointed at a raven that landed on one of the trees. It urged him to continue.

“You ask yourself then. If things won’t go the way you’d have wanted with that someone, would you regret ever doing it with them at all?”

“Obviously,” he snorted. “I wouldn’t want to waste my time.”

A bright smile, just as you settled the green of the wilting grass. Not so much was it green as it were this brownish orange, with it still cold enough for you to wear a sweater this uncomfortable when you’d have wanted your hands free.

“Is it really this…” he did some kind of motion with his hands. “…milestone in your life that’s supposed to be so important?”

“Wow, you’re really asking the right questions here, kid.”

That nickname made him snarl, back to his canvas. It took you a while, having to look to the sky for some kind of answer that wasn’t going to mess his head for the rest of his life.

“I used to think it wasn’t,” you said. “Sometimes, it’s only as important as you make it. It’s all up to what you believe.”

You turned your brush over just the right circle, which made of the red petals of a rose on one of the bushes that first greeted the day after months of a long winter.

Then there was this sinking. Something within.

“But your first time, at least. It should be with someone you love,” you said. “You’ll find that a lot of things will be easier for you.”

He seemed satisfied with that. Thankfully. He didn’t look so traumatized just yet.

Then he asked you one that no longer was so easy to think about.

“Was your first time with someone you loved?”

And you thought, with how everything suddenly weighed, not just your head or your hands but the whirring air, the leaves that danced along to it, the flowers still so young into their bloom, the misty clouds, the light, the brush on your hand and the paint on its tip.

What wasn’t so heavy, that is, was your voice.

Because if anything surprised you that day, more than the questions and the apparent peace, was how easily the answer came out of you.

Easy, because it was true.

And it was true, because when you lied, your clammy hands would be stuck to your back, shaking just as much as your eyes would be frantic and searching for something that wasn’t there.

But your voice was as light as your hands were calm and dry, your eyes fixated on the beautiful sight of the city and nothing else.

“Yes,” you said. And with it, came a smile that lasted for days.

Jason:

Two thousand dollars sounded a lot more inviting after a failed drug raid, not so much after the seeing all the evening gowns and diamonds and Bruce using his almighty charm with investors in sharp-needled stilettoes.

He did not, for his own sanity’s sake, want to sit through any of it, not even for a whole inheritance from the enterprise. Nope. Not even ten million dollars was worth putting on this god-awful suit poking through his neck like a knife, a jacket supposed to fit but had popped off one of the buttons, and of course, his hair. Swept back. Ruled over by mounds of gel and whatever it was the rest of his brothers had on. They all looked like elves in a Christmas workshop assembly line with the red tie over his chest.

Whatever trouble would happen, they’d call him. Now that they’ve blocked off his room, however, he came to not much resort.

The manor’s pool, to his luck, was unguarded. Unused for the last few months, but still clean.

Whatever silence was, and whatever silence could be, it was just that when he shut the door behind him, not bothering to latch on the lock, and turned on one of the lights, the purple and blue ones that shone from underneath the pool’s floor, like some magical lake that would speak to him in rhymes, maybe hand him a sword floating on a lily pad, but not even that was enough to impress him. As if anything impresses him still.

He stood by the poolside, hands in his suit pockets. Audibly he cursed that he forgot to bring a cigarette pack, but even that thought didn’t last long enough to bother him too much.

Jason stood there, right by the water, and watched the lights change like they told much of a story.

Something. Anything, to intrigue him.

Anything to make him feel again, to interest him, to cry out to him and actually hold his attention long enough for it to not be whisked away from his mind by his own hands because thinking or feeling was too much work.

But even those very lights, that didn’t seem so bright at all, were silent. The same silence for so many months.

He wanted noise. He wanted to hear again. But nothing, nothing was loud enough for him anymore. Someone could be screaming into his head and so much of it would disperse before it even reaches his ears at all, much less his brain. It wasn’t that he was being dumb, though that would be quite the reason.

But it was that nothing was bright enough anymore.

No one was attractive, or intriguing, or entertaining. Not by a mile.

Nothing. He cared about nothing.

Everything, all except her.

And it had to be just that, no room so bright, no smile so true, then when it was with her.

He hated the truth, perhaps just as much as he hated the rest of the world. The only thing he didn’t hate was someone he couldn’t even be with, much less love. But here he was.

Some noise from the door he came in from. He should have locked it. Now someone else was here.

More so did he wish that when he turned and saw who it was.

“Here?” Y/N’s shoes against the empty ground. That, he heard. Fuck him. “Really?”

“They closed off my room.”

She looked really pretty, lipstick on her already red lips, jumpsuit dragging along the tiles and her hair down her back. And she didn’t stop walking until she was right by his side, much to his dismay. Still, he didn’t move. Though god forbid he allow himself another look after the first one.

“You’re just gonna stand here and stare at the water?”

“Better than that shitshow outside.”

“Every party’s a shitshow for you.”

“Finally, one of you caught on.” He shifted his arms as if he had a drink he was holding, which he didn’t. He needed one badly.

“Then why accept the job?” she shrugged. “You could have just said no.”

He didn’t expect her to look at the water like it were at all interesting.

But suddenly, the lights from underneath didn’t seem so dull anymore.

Because even having to swim through the lavas of literal hell, I’d leave the comforts of isolation if it means you’d be anywhere within the room.

“Two thousand dollars,” he said.

“Ah.”

Everything did get easier to understand, once he stopped with the moping and the denial and actually allowed that stupid little voice he hated to speak up loud enough so he’d listen to it.

“Maybe you’re right,” she laughed. “The water actually is a lot more interesting.”

Right then, he allowed himself a second, subtle look. At her face. The thin straps over her shoulders that laid so well against her skin. Her hair she’d purposely made unruly but still styled enough to be classy.

The next thing to notice were her hands. They weren’t shaking, though they weren’t unmoving either. Her thumbs were rubbing over the backs of her palms, much like fidgeting her fingers would as if she were nervous. But there shouldn’t be anything to be nervous about. Nothing he could see, at that.

But after a look at her hands, it was her eyes that told him the whole story of her trailing thoughts, thoughts that maybe she didn’t know about as well.

Three years since she’s last stepped into a pool, since she’s felt that much water around her, dance along every bit of her skin when she’d push through the waves and move about as if she were floating, or flying, suspended from the ground and not have a string to hold her up.

She wanted to. He could see that. But it was doubtful that she’d admit to that. She’d never admit to that, not when it would only cause so much disappointment when she’ll ultimately cower away.

But her wanting to swim made him want to swim.

Some first step. To have someone to help her. He could be that someone.

Not even thinking for himself anymore. Jason was off to the benches at the side, and had taken off his tie and slid it off his neck.

“What are you doing?” she asked, just as he took off his suit jacket.

“I’m going in.”

She looked at him like she would to a troll that had climbed out of the sewers, though it wasn’t much out of disgust as it would be of disbelief. At least, he hoped it was. That wasn’t even to matter. He’d taken off his dress shirt before he even realized what he was doing at all.

Not something he’d do so suddenly, but then again, some of the most stupid things he’s ever done the past year were all for her sake. This didn’t surprise him at the least, not even the fact that the more rational part of him was watching him move like some hamster in a wheel stupidly trying to run away.

“You’re gonna swim?”

He unbuckled his belt. “Mind turning around?”

Her eyes flashed wide open, and she did as told.

Jason took off his pants, his shoes, everything save for his boxers. This wasn’t so stupid. It shouldn’t be.

He stepped into the pool, one foot first, then he slid in. He wanted to feel the cold. He wanted it to go against his heat and make him feel something and actually overwhelm him. And it was just that, that very feeling he’d long craved, when he spread his arms and let the water seep into his flesh.

Then he found himself smiling, just as he looked up and caught Y/N watching him do all that, lips between her teeth and beaming back so wonderfully bright, every part of him ached for that sight to last so much longer.

He sat back, waved through the water, inviting her even when he wasn’t asking her, telling her that this is all okay, that she was ready.

A million voices were screaming at him that none of this added up to just about every thought he could muster, that it wasn’t in him to just jump into the water, half naked and alone with the woman he loved. So many asking him what the hell he was doing, that all this was going to scare her away.

But it was, in fact, in him to know what went on in her head, as she longingly looked at the pool like it were so much more than that. It was in him to know that there’s so many more steps in this staircase of healing, to being that very person she’d sought out to be, away from the incident, who she no longer was, and never has been.

Jason swam over to the side of the pool, at the side where she stood.

And with that, a smile so beautiful, she crouched over and set her legs to the side so she could sit on the ground. Her hand was too near from where he laid his arms, but he didn’t reach for it. He just watched as the droplets that fell from his skin onto the ground nipped at her fingers.

“Is it cold?”

His voice was low and husky. “Yeah…”

“Is it nice?”

Jason looked to the wall behind her and laughed. “The water’s great.”

She hummed.

Her hands. Something about them. He couldn’t look away. Like they were so much more than her soft fingers and her gentle touch. With his chin buried onto his folded arms, he kept looking.

Not from her hands that were reluctantly reaching for the water’s surface, shy, bashful even, like it would sting her if she inched too close. Y/N stretched out her fingers and touched it, enough to drench just the tip of it, then she twirled it about to create wonderful ripples that waved to his body.

Jason reached over to hold her wrist, stopped just in case she were to pull away, but she didn’t pull away.

Y/N’s eyes were on him, just as silent and curious, and he felt her relax.

He led her hand further into the water, deeper, colder. He felt the hair on her skin stand, bumps over her pores. She was breathless, over something so small. He pulled gently enough until the water reached up to her elbow.

Then the smile he earned out of her, the love he so wanted to earn as well, it was all he could see, with her toying with the water and swerving it about. Right then, he could hear everything. The droplets that danced, the splashes against their skin, her subtle laughter, her teeth over her lips. He heard it all, and it was beautiful, so much more than songs or tunes played by the most skilled hands over piano keys.

If he could just let himself watch her, for longer than he hoped, he’d fall deeper in love than the depths he’d already fallen into, and had tried, relentlessly, to escape from, but couldn’t. Denial didn’t help much, but neither did admittance. He was stuck. And if only things weren’t so hard, he wouldn’t dare complain. Not when that very woman he loved was this beautiful.

She drew her hand away, her other one soothing the damp skin and ruining her jumpsuit with the water, which she didn’t even care about.

He wasn’t even thinking anymore. His heart open and his mind shut off. From how she sat, her ankle was exposed, and it was close enough to the water to feel the splatters but not enough to get wet.

Still, without a word, Jason cupped his hand, drew a bit of water up to the surface.

Then he played those drops right onto her skin, close to her feet where her shoes were strapped around. She clenched her toes at the cold, but she seemed to have liked it. He did it again, the droplets falling from his fingers, until her skin was stiff from the air so cold with it drenched.

That’s when she sighed, went on to stare at the little waves he’d created.

“I want to go in.”

He backed away from the pool side, waved his arms about to show her further that it was safe, and wonderful. Then he nodded at her. “If you think you’re ready…”

He saw her throat hitch, but it wasn’t out of doubt.

“I’m ready.”

He didn’t even have to try so hard to show her that everything she was going through, right then, he knew every second of what it was like. His face was soft, his look on her was soft, every bit of him had to be soft for this to be easy on her.

Then things weren’t so soft anymore when she started pulling down her straps from her shoulders. He gulped.

“Could you uh,” she twirled her finger around, motioning that he turn the other way. He did.

It was, both to his fortune and of not, that the wall in front of him was a mirror, reflecting all that went on behind his back. Everything in him stopped, even the blood down his every vein, and with that he watched as she exposed her temple of a body, one he’d worshipped and cherished and made feel every ounce of a sensation there could be, and continue to dream about even with her no longer being there.

But she was here now.

You:

The hardest to take off weren’t the straps on your shoes.

But all you ever had to know, was that the one you were with, the one you were hopelessly in love with, was there to help you through all of this.

“Do you, uh,” Jason coughed. “Need some help with that?”

You knew he was watching. If you actually didn’t want him to watch, you would have gone to the other side of the pool and took off your clothes where there wasn’t a mirror in front.

“Yeah,” you said.

As his eyes laid on you, relaxed, calm, just as you remembered he once watched your body so bare, with just a strapless bra over your chest and seamless panties, what contrasted the very cold that stemmed from the water was the burn underneath your flesh, the burn in your chest, the burn on your face and every nerve ending there was. Every nerve ending.

Suddenly you were limbless when he swam over to you, right in front from where you sat at the poolside, and his fingers were on the skin of your thighs, both of them. The water from his skin, falling and absorbing into your own. A sensation in itself.

You unlatched your leg, and he pulled it off and set it to your side.

Now, you were bare.

Jason was looking up at your eyes, however, and not at anything else. Not at the parts so incomplete. Not on places so ugly. As if you were so beautiful. And from that look alone, you started to believe that you were.

One at a time.

With his hands held out, you let him take your right leg, the one covered in burns and healed stitches, but still with toes and skin at all, and carefully, laid it into the water.

It was cold. Colder than even ice. But god, was it so heavenly.

Now, the other.

Jason, from what you could tell, tried not to look nervous just as you were, but you both smiled, and that was all there is to it to make you step into that very threshold once so frightening.

Your left leg, ending just three inches below your knee, dipped into the water’s surface.

You were here.

You were free.

You could feel the cold, the water, the waves, and the rush up to your head.

“Take your time,” Jason breathed, and his voice was all the more wonderful with everything else you could feel.

Any more, and the tears might start to defy your efforts.

He was as gentle as you knew him to be, and with that, it urged you on. You wanted to be the freest version of yourself. You wanted to be in the water with him, and hold him.

“Jason-“

“I’m here.”

You slid off the poolside, and he was there to hold you up before you could even think to move. His warm hands were so different from how cold the water was, but as equally burning as the heat that spurred everywhere else. They held your waist, and you did not want them to move away at all.

“It’s okay,” he said, with his grip still strong. “I’ll let go only if you tell me to.”

So you didn’t tell him to.

Your hands, already they found their ways resting on top of his shoulders, holding onto him a lot firmer than you actually needed to. Your right leg touched the floor. Your left one waved about in the water. You looked down. They were there. They were alright. They didn’t sting, nor hurt, nor did you feel so exposed that you’d never want to step into any light again.

“You alright?”

“Yeah,” you frantically nodded, still looking down at the prettiest lights that shone beneath you and Jason’s feet.

You were laughing. “This is so great…”

“It is…”

With you so distracted marveling over the water, he thought you wouldn’t notice if his hands rubbed over your waist, circled them tighter, enough for his fingers to rest delicately on your spine. He was holding you so tenderly, yet you could feel how much he was holding back. And you just went on pretending not to notice.

“I want to go there.”

You pointed at the middle of the pool, where the lights were centered on, littered about to form this spiral that stretched out like a firework that burst into the sky.

“Alright,” said Jason. “Hold on, okay?”

You nodded, and again that wonderful sensory outburst that were supposed to overwhelm you, but didn’t, when Jason led you both to the center of the pool, the waves flowing against your flesh and skin. Oh, was it so beautiful. The water, touching your every bit, it was so much more than you remembered, and so much better than you’d have imagined.

As you reached that very center, and with you having to take in both the feel of this flight, the breath that had escaped you, the lights, ones you had to watch from afar, were now beneath and around you, like you stood right in the core of a star that exploded, a supernova, right at the flares and the burst of light and sound, just as it was on your flesh.

You were swimming on stars, on clouds, on a bed of petals so sweet. You were afloat in this wonderous space, the sun so close but not burning you with its light. There were tears. Wonderous tears. Ones you couldn’t hold back with your heart in full and your chest in this tug that pulled it in all directions. You splayed your arms out, and tilted your head back, enough for your hair to be dipped into the water. And you closed your eyes. Everything. Everything. This was everything.

You looked back up, and no one, not even the moon itself in the midst of a dark sky, had ever looked at you the way Jason did.

Oh god, how you loved him.

Then that music, one that was playing so sweetly the moment you stepped in, it blurred out when you circled your arms around his strong neck.

He kept with his promise and went on to keep holding you so close, closer, until your chest met his so solid, all the cold from the once freezing water was whisked away.

Fingers tangled onto his hair, breaths battling as they met in the space in between, a space that shouldn’t have been there at all. His own hands trailed down to your hips, further down until it made you jolt.

Then your legs were around him. You were flying, so high up in the sky not even the clouds would reach you.

He pushed back your hair.

You didn’t know at what point your lips had met, your warmth uniting into one, single flame, but everything was so much of the speed of a moving picture, that none of time, nothing of the sort that wasn’t him and him alone, ever even mattered anymore.

Jason:

What was it called, when something unfolded before you, and everything happened so fast even when you’d try to make it slow, flashed into this bright, white light, and suddenly you couldn’t move, nor say anything to protest?

That wasn’t even much to think about anymore.

Everything was paced, so slow, slow enough that he could feel every movement she made, every flick of her fingers, every sound that escaped her lips. It heightened to so much more than it actually was. Those months, where he no longer felt even just a splinter, now all those feelings collapsed into the now.

He was kissing the world, his world, and so much of her beauty manifested into this glorious flow. He was hungry, digging into her skin as if there were more to be undone. His lips were no different. Over her lips, her jaw, her neck, licking over her shoulder and back over to her lips where she tasted the sweetest.

She did not hold back either, and he didn’t want her to. She pulled on his hair enough to make it hurt and so perfect was that pain, the growl that came out of him so animalistic, even more so did he starve. Starve for her. He wanted to taste every bit of her.

And so he did, pushing her to the edge of the pool and turning her around so no longer could anything restrict his shaking touch, on every part of her that would spark a fire engulf larger than the one within his chest. He pushed himself inside her, over and over until it hurt.

He couldn’t hold back, couldn’t hide behind this mask of gentleness any longer. For that same gentleness and touches so soft, only could be when his efforts to conceal what his desires truly manifested into, and it comes with deep want, so much lust, fire that burns, skin being drawn in red by the hungriest nails and teeth that dug into flesh. His hips started to hurt, so did his hands. It was starting to hurt her, too, with there being marks on just about every sweet spot there was. But it was just those marks that pushed them both further into fulfillment.

His name, Jason, the most beautiful thing to ever escape her lips, his hands holding her still, holding her neck and squeezing just enough to let her know that only he could ever give her that perfect mix of pain and gratification so immense, that only he could touch her and make it last, and for the whole of the night, his name was the only thing she could ever cry out.

You:

Oh.

Oh, was it all so wonderful.

The strain, the pull of every muscle, the purple marks on your neck, the bruises on your hips, the aches down your cunt, and every bit inside you, still with the many releases, bursts of avalanches and numbs that faltered into lingering buzzes, and eventually this humming that continued like some song you couldn’t remember. Wonderful. Magical. Even if you could think straight, which you couldn’t do much with what happened, you couldn’t describe it with enough justice.

You’ve never slept so well in so long, your head up far beyond the clouds, into space and the stars above, the gas giants that make you even lighter. With not even gravity to pull you down, you were soaring up above.

In some idealistic perfection, a world without the cruelties you knew all too well, it would be that you’d wake up, satisfied at that, to a bed that wasn’t empty, next to a man you loved whose body was filled with the deepest scars, and that would have been the end to the story and all else, the chaos most especially, would cease.

But as it were as cruel as it were kind enough to grant you that moment of bliss, you woke up, still with the sky so dark, and your arm outstretched for a naked body no longer there, but instead you found that very body already with his clothes on, moving as quiet as he possibly could outside the bed.

“Jason?” you sighed, then you sat up holding the thin sheet up to your chest.

Jason was startled. Wasn’t expecting to wake you. Or that, he was trying not to.

“Why are you up?” he asked. He was in a hurry.

And his face, from what you could read, it told you everything you needed to know.

“Are you leaving?”

Again? You wanted to say.

But even if you did, his response wouldn’t have changed. For the better, that is. Because he didn’t have much a response at all.

“Go back to bed.”

“What’s going on-“

“I’m sorry.”

He zipped up his pants, put on his jacket and just like that he was headed for the door.

His face was too grim and blank for him to leave with intention to come back. His hands were too fast reaching for the door. His voice, too low as if he were hiding something from eventually spilling. No. He was leaving. And he wouldn’t want to be found. Not after that look he just gave you before he opened the door.

You took all the sheets and reached for his shoulder. Already, you were shattered. Already, the weight had befallen, on your arms and your chest. He was so stiff that even to just turn, it was hard for him to do.

But you held his face, really held him so he wouldn’t dare pull away. The air had been sucked out of that very room and so much of your body would have broken apart, fallen to the ground and no one would be there to pick them up.

“You don’t have to leave,” you whispered, pushing your forehead against his so your breaths would meet again. “Please, be with me-“

“Y/N -“

“What did I do?” You met his eyes.

“Nothing. Please. We’ll talk about this later-“

“When?”

He sounded so solid, so unaccepting of anything to be hurled at him.

“I have to go-“

“You’re not coming back, are you?“

“I said we’ll talk about this.”

“Don’t walk away from me-“

He didn’t even let you finish.

He was strong, and he never used that against you. But that time, he did. He grabbed you by the wrists and pulled you off him. In less time than you would have hoped, he was gone.

The man you wanted. The one you loved. The one you chose.

Wouldn’t choose you.

Another of the hurt, that descent, when you’ve slipped into this hole so familiar yet the pain wasn’t something to get used to. Tears on the sheets, broken, so many of them spilling out of you and onto the floor, your skin, the bed.

You can’t shatter again. You can’t break any more.

This was the choice you made. No one told you it was all going to be easy. That all this would be handed over just as you called the moment you wanted it. No. Not with him.

Go after him.

Tell him everything.

Go after him.

You grabbed everything you got, put on your clothes and rushed out that door before you were even fully awake enough for your eyes to adjust to the light. Straight down the stairs, out into the garage where you knew Jason parked his bike. He wasn’t there. He already left.

So you took one of the keys that were hung on the wall, started up one of Bruce’s many cars and drove out of that manor.

You weren’t going to let go. You’d chase him if you had to.

You knew this would happen, the moment you realized you loved this asshole. You saw this coming. And you were prepared.

You were as fast as if you flew, if you were no heavier than a speck, a particle that would let even the flap of a butterfly’s wings change its course and move so fast, no one would have seen it.

You called him. As you drove and reached the city, you did not stop calling. Five. Six. Ten times. He didn’t answer.

Once you reached his apartment, seeing that his bike wasn’t where he’d parked it, you called again.

At the fifteenth call, he picked up.

“Jason, for the love of god-“

Your hands were shaking as it held the wheel, and nothing, not even the rain pattering onto the windshield would have calmed you. Everything happened just as fast as the rest of the night went on. And here you were, at the end, and you tripped just as you saw that very end of the dark tunnel.

“Y/N…” he said. And his voice a lot softer than it had been just then.

“Please, just talk to me.”

“We’ll talk. I promise you, we will-“

“I want to talk to you now-“

“You think you know what you want,” he said. “But you don’t. Give it time. You’ll change your mind.”

You slammed your fists against the wheel and the horn blew under the impact.

“You said you’d never make decisions for me-“

“If this is your decision, you need me to make it for you.”

So close. So close to driving away and leave him for the rest of forever.

But it wasn’t close enough.

You turned to the screen right by the car’s dashboard, pressed onto the button to turn on Bruce’s many trackers. There was a red dot.

‘No,’ you whispered. ‘No, you won’t.’

Jason:

“I’m sorry…” he pleaded. “I’m so sorry… but I promise you. Everything will get better.”

Up a rooftop, where he thought she’d never find him. It was hard to ignore the quake in his voice, his hands, how every word he spoke was like driving a knife down his throat, neck, and chest.

“No,” she screamed, and her cries hurt more than that very knife ever would. “It won’t. You’re a coward. What are you gonna do? Leave for another four months?”

“That’s not true.”

“Tell me it is!”

“Y/N.”

He let the skyline distract him, the buildings that soared up, higher than he could ever stand, then locked his eyes onto one of them so they wouldn’t defy him and break apart.

“Whatever it is you think is going on, it isn’t. I already told you how I felt. Why didn’t you just lis-“

Of course, she’d find him.

To be frank, even if it were one of the other safe houses he’s picked that wasn’t on any map of the city, she was bound to find him. He left her at Wayne Manor, for fuck’s sake.

The minute he heard her footsteps, coming in from entryway, he stopped talking, breathing even, and put his phone down. Trackers. Of course. Bruce had five of them on him at least.

He turned around.

“You actually fucking followed me-“

“Why?”

She wore the same thing from that night, the same suit he’d lustfully watched her take off, straps down those very shoulders, baring herself. Her hair, up in this beautiful mess, makeup no longer there and her face beautifully bare. Still a sight, she was, a sight he no longer wanted to get lost in.

“Why is this so hard for you-“

“Because it doesn’t make sense.”

“Why not?“

“Because, I-“

Every word out of him, a fire that couldn’t be put out. Flames uncontrollable, and his breath nothing but encouraging winds.

“Because you’re gonna wake up one day and realize I’m not any of my brothers… I was the one who never stood a chance,” he said. “No one would think you’d want me, out of the many other things you could have had. One day, you’re gonna realize that I’m not what you wanted-“

“I love you-“

God, it was everything he ever wanted to hear.

“You had Dick and Tim. They’ve loved you for so long… And you’re actually choosing the one guy who doesn’t?“

“You’re lying.”

“Am I?”

Another step forward from her. Another step back from him. He can’t stand too close or all this would be as close to the world’s slowest, most painful death.

“Nothing could have pointed you to me. Everything was telling you to-“

“For fuck’s sake, stop listening to everything else and just listen to me.”

A struggle at that.

But he’s never been so cold.

It wasn’t even from the wind from such a height, if there were any at all. But he was shivering, his teeth were gritting. Everything he said, he didn’t even mean. And all the more was it excruciating to hear himself say it all.

But he could listen. Even if it’d hurt. He’ll listen.

She was crying. To just reach over and hold her hand. He couldn’t even do that.

“Three years ago,” she whispered into the cold night air. “I was at the manor. Two weeks out of the hospital. I was just learning how to walk again but that day was hard on me. I couldn’t make a step. I was on my bed, and I was just staring at the ceiling because I couldn’t get out of it.”

It pained him all the more, when he knew nothing of what was to come to him, that all this was going to catch him before he’d even realize what it was.

“You never visit me at the manor but that day, you were there. I don’t even remember what for, but you stopped by and you caught me reading A Christmas Carol because it was the one book in my room that I actually liked. Because I couldn’t go down to the library and get more, and I didn’t want to ask from anyone.

“We ended up talking about Dickens. I didn’t know shit, but I remember you talking about him like he was your uncle and I just listened to you. I told you I liked reading his books. You said you’d bring me more when you’d come back. Three days later, you did. You got me Great Expectations.”

Great Expectations.

Why can’t he remember this?

“You left, and I read it that same night. That’s when I found a quote that you highlighted.”

Jason took a step back, away from her.

“I loved her against reason, against promise, against peace, against hope, against happiness, against all discouragement that could be.”

Everything. Everything that devastated, all suddenly came to place.

“The book was new. Store bought. The tag was still there. You bought it for me a day after you visited. Then you read it yourself and highlighted that quote.”

“How did you-“

“Remember that?”

She ignored the streaks down her skin, the droplets that fell down her neck.

“It was just a quote,” she shrugged. “It easily could have been nothing… but if I think of it differently now, it all makes so much sense.”

If he took another step back, he’d fall over the ledge.

He should have done that, now that she had walked close enough for him to get so lost into her face.

“If you loved me then,” you whispered. “Did you even know about it?”

This. This was worse than a fall.

He closed his eyes and everything fell through. The tears. The sobs. Everything. Because he did love her then. He’s always loved her since. But to admit it was close to writing his own death sentence.

This. This was death. And he’d happily jump back into that abyss.

“I didn’t want to believe it…”

You:

You reached for his face and for once, he welcomed it.

“If you tell me to leave right now,” you swallowed. “I’ll leave. I’ll never look for you again.”

Even if it hurts, even if I’ll have to live without you. If it’s what you want, I’ll let you go.

His hands found your wrists but it was to hold you, not to pry you away.

“Do you love me?”

It wasn’t in his words.

It was how he said yes that made you soar past the birds and the thin air from above.

It was when he finally took a step forward, to hold you in place, to keep you from falling apart and keep you so close, that acceptance of what truly went on, the love you’ve long known about and continued to believe in, even when he didn’t believe in it himself. It was there. It was what moved you. You could have fallen in from one of the many spaces above and still, you would end up in his arms.

“Of course, I do…“

Just as the sun rose, to greet you both into this morning anew. So new a life, waiting for you to come welcome it. And you welcomed it with the widest arms. He kissed you, so tender and real. Up where the city could see you, where you wanted to be seen, only to be with him.

Epilogue

Jason:

One box would have been enough for his clothes. He didn’t have much anyway. But as it turns out, leather jackets aren’t exactly as compact as he’d liked.

“Where do you want me to put these?!”

She was in the bathroom. He saw her peak her head out from the door to look at the jacket he was holding up.

“I set up a new closet for you!” she cried out, then she went back to brushing her teeth. “It’s beside mine!”

“Got it!”

He took the boxes of clothes, set it just outside the closet which he’ll definitely get into after he deals with everything else. Moving wasn’t something he liked doing, even when he’s moved around a single city so much before his lease would have allowed him to.

But, this new apartment, her apartment, covered in paint and canvases and rags all over the place that nipped at his neat freakiness he’d soon have to overcome, he might actually stick around.

“What about this!?”

He held up his box of books.

“I emptied a shelf for you, too! It’s next to my sketchbooks.”

“Sketchbooks, sketchbooks…”

Her sketchbooks were all over the fucking place.

He found that shelf, at least. Just enough for all his books. That is, if the paint cans above wouldn’t collapse.

“Do you clean up even just a little?”

“Shut up. It’s organized mess.”

“It’s always organized mess with you artists…”

“What?!”

“Nothing!”

She stepped out the bathroom, in nothing more than just a thin shirt and pajama shorts, then she watched him fumble with the last of his boxes.

“And, uh,” he coughed. “Can I put these somewhere?”

The look on her face, playfully annoyed as it was pleasantly unsurprised, she wanted to laugh that he’d resorted to storing his whole arsenal of weapons in a single cardboard box.

“That floorboard over there,” she pointed. “I loosened it up for you.”

“You’re a doll, pretty bird.” Jason put the box on the floor, ran up to her and grabbed her by her thighs, hoisting her whole thrashing body up his shoulder.

Her screams turned to laughter, then he spun her around, slammed her into her own bed like it was a wrestling ring and held her down with a headlock.

Everything he’s ever thought how this would have ended wasn’t so much of a fraction of how it went. Never has he smiled for so many days, happiness without condition, love so pure, a life that no longer was filled of days he’d have to survive, and was now a life he wanted remember, love, and live.

This was how it ended.

And he never wanted it to end.

-----

MASTERLIST | 3 BIRDS 1 STONE MASTERLIST | BLUE | YELLOW

-----

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animedaddymilkers · 3 years

Text

Kinkmas 2020: Day 20

Prompt: Size Kink w/ Kisame

Genre: Smut/18+ || Tags: Size Kink, Comfort, Tummy Bulge, Cum-Flation, Fingering, Penetrative Sex || Characters: Kisame Hoshigaki, Female Reader || read it on ao3 here

"Hi, can I help you find any…anything?" your customer service voice chimed out, only stuttering over your words when you finally looked up and up and up and met the eyes of the customer in front of you.

Said customer was a hulk of a man, though the bluish tint to his skin had you questioning even that part. You were used to being generally small and short but the height of this man made you remember that all the more. Still, you had a job to do and kept the cheerful smile plastered onto your face. The man turned around and looked down at you rather amused, though you were relieved when his face broke out in a smile.

"Why yes, I need help finding some bandages and perhaps a new shirt," his voice boomed out, nearly sending you to your knees at the pure baritone nature of it.

Only now did you notice the tatters in his shirt and the gash covering his torso, "Oh, gosh, okay! H-Here just follow me!"

Clamoring about you collected medical equipment and grabbed his hand, leading him to the back of the shop after flipping the open sign to closed. You sat him down at your simple kitchen chair, which almost looked comical under his large form. But you didn't have time to ogle over the sight of him as he was still actively bleeding. Your hands prepped the supplies quickly and you were about to start fixing him up when his hands wrapped around yours, effectively stopping you.

"You don't need to do this, little dewdrop. I can do it myself."

Besides the affectionate nickname catching you off guard, you steeled your resolve and shook your head at him, "Please, let me do this! I don't see how you can stitch yourself up with your hands shaking so!"

He raised an eyebrow and looked to his hands holding yours. Sure enough, even while clasped around yours, his hands were shaking. Damn, the injury must be affecting him more than he thought. With a defeated sigh he let your hands go and leaned back into the chair, the wood ominously creaking beneath his weight. You sat on another chair in front of him and went to work, first, discarding him of the tattered shirt barely covering him. Still, to see his chest completely bare had your cheeks heating up. Your hands pressed against his abdomen to put pressure on the wound, intent to stop the blood. As you held your hands there the man in front of you rubbed his face.

"How did you get this injury?"

"Best not for you to ask questions, little one," so much for small talk.

"Can I at least have your name?"

The man seemed to think about it for a moment before answering, "Kisame. Yours?"

You gave him your name and reveled in the small smile he offered you after hearing it. After the introduction he seemed to relax slightly, allowing just a bit of small talk between you two. He told you he was injured in a fight, though he wouldn't go into too much detail and you wouldn't ask. The blood flow finally slowed and you took the cloth away, throwing it into a nearby bin. Then you set about cleaning the wound, frowning when Kisame tensed at the antiseptic that no doubt burned. Your other hand grabbed his and held it tight to support him through the pain. Briefly, you took in the sheer size difference of your hands, your own barely as big as his palm. After cleaning, you carefully bandaged the gash, paying mind to patch it up so it hopefully wouldn't rip open again.

"Thank you."

It was a simple statement, but it conveyed a tone of finality, that he was leaving and you turned from putting the supplies away, "You still need a shirt. And please, let me make you some food. It'll help you recover better."

Kisame should have turned down the offer, but you were hospitable and altogether unassuming. So, against the better judgment, he was trained with, he accepted your offer. Thankfully, you had a meal already on cooking since the morning and you dished out two bowls for the two of you. As you ate, it felt natural and easy to sit across from each other and chat. The conversation flowed from topics of your favorite colors, to what you thought about the fate of stray dogs. There was no rhyme or reason to what you talked about and that's what made it interesting. But, as Kisame finished his fourth bowl, you realized it was once again drawing to a close. You weren't sure why, maybe it was his attractive looks, but you didn't want to say goodbye to him. He offered to help do dishes and you actually accepted his help, if only to keep him around that much longer. Again, that only lasted for a handful of minutes until you were left shifting from foot to foot as both of you stood around in silence.

"You… You could always stay the night," you offered boldly before quickly adding, "To help you heal more, of course!"

His eyebrows raised before he nodded at your second part, "Of course, of course. You're right. It would help. I'll stay. Do you have an extra bed?"

Your face dropped slightly and you laughed a bit nervously, "Uhh, well, no, but you can have my bed! There's room enough for you."

"And enough for you too? Well, 'suppose even if not, you could always sleep on top of me, dewdrop," Kisame stated plainly before laughing at your sheepish reaction.

"I-I suppose," your cheeks heated up at the image of you curled up on his chest, another reaction that Kisame didn't miss.

He leaned down until he was eye level, grinning suavely, "I still need to repay you for patching me up, so name your price, and don't be shy about it."

You thought about it for a moment, knowing he wouldn't accept 'nothing' as an answer, "Kiss me."

"Damn, that's a pretty cheap price for a wrap job. But I guess I shouldn't complain. I'll gladly kiss you a million times over," with that, Kisame lifted you from the floor so your face was level with his.

Wrapping your legs around his torso, careful to mind his wound, you rested your hands on his broad shoulders. His smile was contagious and even as he leaned in for the kiss it was all a bit surreal. The soft lips against yours tasted, unlike anything you ever kissed before. Reminiscent of salt with a spearmint kick to it, almost like taffy. It was far from bad and when he went to pull away you found yourself following his mouth, keeping the contact. He exhaled in amusement against you but obeyed your wishes, kissing you again and again. His large hands supported your bottom, one hand easily covering an entire cheek as he held you close. The sheer size of the man had you wet from the second he walked into your store and now that he was kissing you in his arms you were a bit anxious to get the show on the road if you will.

You pulled away to peel your shirt off, white eyes taking in every inch of newly revealed skin. The shirt landed somewhere in the hallway as Kisame wandered through to what he deemed your bedroom. Not like it was hard to spot anyway, it was the only room that had a bed in the middle. Gingerly, he laid you down on the bed and snickered.

"You're definitely going to have to sleep on top of me," He grinned and kissed down your jaw to your neck.

"You say that like it's a bad thing," you responded in a breath, moaning at the way he sucked on your skin.

The sharp teeth so close to your jugular had your heart beating a bit faster. Though you were almost positive Kisame wouldn't hurt you, just knowing there was a possibility turned you on even more. He nipped slightly and you gasped at the feeling before letting out a moan. The reaction was exactly what he wanted and he took it as an invitation to do more to you, a hand placing itself between your legs and rubbing you through your pants. A grin spread across his face as he felt your wetness even through the material and went about undoing them, eager to see just how soaked you were. Once completely bare he slipped twin fingers down, damn you really were soaked. He pushed the thick digits inside, slowly working you open and making a comment about how he needed to stretch you.

Foolishly, you thought that just meant fingering you for a few minutes and then the main event, but you couldn't have been more wrong. Just when you thought you were going to get fucked, Kisame instead pushed a third, thick finger inside of you. You were already a moaning mess but he still pumped his fingers in and out, working you open even more. He curled his fingers just right and before long you were having your first orgasm of the night. Finally, he pulled all of his fingers out and began kicking your juices off. His fingers then hooked into his pants and boxers, pushing them down and off, leaving you gasping at the sight of what lay underneath.

Words were unfathomable as you took in the absolute fear-invoked of a cock he had. Truly, when people wrote about a cock able to split a person in two, there was a picture of him next to it. It made sense now as to why he went to such lengths to prep you and still you thought maybe he should go back to prepping you more. Yet you didn't voice any of those fears, the feeling of lust overtaking you and you decided you needed to try and take it right then and there. Kisame seemed to notice though and asked if you had any lube, pouring a copious amount onto his length before flipping you onto all fours. Like the horny bitch you currently were, you pressed your face down and wiggled your ass in the air slightly, begging him to fuck you already.

"You look so good like this, dewdrop. I'm going to fuck you so good. You're gonna look so sexy trying to take as much of my dick as you can."

His lewd words earned a moan from you and the tip of his cock nudged against your entrance. Slowly and carefully, he pushed inside of you, listening for any cues from you for him to stop, but when none came he went as far as your pussy would allow him to. For a moment, he stayed still, the sheer size of him spearing you had you moaning and gripping at the sheets nearly losing your mind. He barely got halfway in, but that was still impressive for your first time taking him. Inch by inch he pulled out until the tip was the only thing left inside of you before pushing back in, forcing you open again. You whined and wiggled your ass slightly, needing more movement from him, no matter how much it could potentially hurt.

Kisame groaned and obliged, pulling his hips out a bit quicker before thrusting back in. His heavy balls slapped against your clit, sending shivers down your spine. Where other lovers would lean down and kiss your shoulder, Kisame easily leaned over and caught your mouth in a kiss, not having to worry about stretching to reach at all. His large hands played with your tits, tugging on your nipples like they were toys. Though even with all the rippling pectorals and sheer body size, each of his touches were soft and playful. He pounded into you and you came at the sight of your stomach protruding with each thrust. The squeeze around him as you came was honestly a bit painful for him, but hey it's a good thing he got off on that. He helped you ride out your orgasm and then continued, almost literally, rearranging your guts.

"Fuck, dewdrop, this pussy feels so good wrapped around me, I could keep you like this forever."

Somewhere, your mind knew you only met this man today, but the overwhelming majority just didn't give a shit. He could keep you forever and it'd be a happy life. As long as it meant he'd fuck you like this, you'd be content. His hips seemed to only go faster, but with the amount of thigh muscle he was working with, it made sense. You came again when his balls hit against your clit particularly rough, sending your thighs shaking and you gripped the bedsheets desperately. Kisame groaned as you came again and his hands never stopped touching you, groping at every inch of your body.

Though it was only after your third orgasm did he start to falter himself. He grunted and gripped your shoulder a bit tighter than before, hips stuttering in their rhythm. But, he wasn't done yet and flipped you onto your back before picking the pace back up, fucking into you like a crazed animal. You weren't about to complain though and not like you could either, at this point you could barely form words longer than his name and various cusses. Kisame nipped along your collarbone, muffling his groans before he growled and shoved himself deep, covering your inner walls in white. It didn't stop there, his load felt like it kept coming and coming, the sheer feeling sending you into another orgasm. By the time he was finished your stomach had a barely yet still there bulge, thanks to the massive load he gave you. You babbled incoherent whines, whimpers, and moans and now this time, it was Kisame's turn to tend to you.

As he cleaned you up and, like promised, settled you on his chest, he grinned while rubbing your back, "Guess I should get stabbed more often."

hope you enjoyed! remember likes & reblogs help me reach more people! :D

#naruto #naruto x reader #kisame hoshigaki #kisame x reader #kisame x you #smut #naruto smut #reader insert #kinkmas 2020 #size difference

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kitkat1003 · 3 years

Text

Who Are You Really?

Chapter 4: Rush Hour

Summary:

Huh. Guess Spirit doesn’t have too much time to introspect. That’s okay, though. Introspection doesn’t lead to anything good, and Spirit much prefers action over thought when they start to think too far back.

They dig into their pocket, pulling out the proper token.

Ft. Almond, who belongs to @strange-lace

Spirit Masterpost

Spirit is nervous.

Macaque’s token is buzzing.

They don’t know if they should be. They’re nervous for clients, of course, and they’re polite to everyone they meet, but Macaque is...different. They’ve known him longer, longer than most of their clients.

They’ve done so many favors for him, he can’t hurt them. They know that. They know they know that.

They still tremble a little as they reach into their pocket.

Are the favors not enough? They have to be. Spirit has been operating on them for as long as they can remember, likely longer than that. Favors are dependable, favors make sense, they can tally them down and be assured, and know, and can quantify, and

And yet.

Macaque is like Red, but different. Close, but not a friend. Something else. And Spirit shouldn’t be afraid. They’ve done him favors, they’re safe. They’ve done everything he asked, even when it wasn’t good. Because they aren’t stupid, and they know what is and isn’t right. They haven’t been right for a long time maybe ever, but they just want to be safe, and this is how they will be.

They know that. This is how it has to be.

Because if it isn’t, then Spirit would have, and wouldn’t have, and

Spirit doesn’t like to think on the would haves, because they turn into should haves. They should have this, they should have that—none of that is helpful. Wanting more from the past doesn’t change the present.

Besides, they should have what they deserve, and

Spirit grabs the token and goes to where they are needed.

They’re not quite sure where they are, at first, but the cliffside they appear at is just a few miles from the town. They can see the weather tower from where they are. It’s the tallest building in the city, after all.

Macaque’s seeming lack of appearance would be worrying, but Spirit feels the itch that always happens in their eye, the big one, when Macaque is hiding in the dark.

“You test that a lot,” they say. “I haven’t missed you yet.”

They turn around just as Macaque steps out of their shadow. It’s kind of interesting, watching the flat object liquify into what seems like smoke, pulling from the rockface upon which Spirit’s shadow is cast. From shadow to smoke to flesh and bone, the transition seamless.

“I’m your teacher, aren’t I? Who else is going to test you?” He stretches his arms leaning back against the cliff face with his arms crossed over his chest.

Spirit supposes that makes sense. Macaque is their teacher, in the sense that he’s really the only person who has bothered to teach Spirit anything, save for their mom. But Mom isn’t a teacher, she’s Mom, so Macaque is their teacher. It makes sense when you think about it.

“So,” Macaque starts, a claw lazily tugging at Spirit’s sleeve to get their attention. “Got any new information? As a favor,” he adds the last part like he always does, and Spirit perks up like they always do.

A new favor is always so nice.

“Oh, well, the Demon Bull King was released,” they start. “Red Son, Princess Iron Fan, and the Demon Bull King have congregated on the outskirts of Wán Qiãn Chéng, where Monkey King’s successor lives, and they battle him from time to time—”

“Monkey King has a successor?” Macaque all but shouts, loud enough that Spirit takes a step back.

They fidget, and hide their hands behind their back.

“Um, yes?” Spirit shrugs at Macaque’s incredulous look. “He stopped the Demon Bull King when DBK first emerged, and has been protecting the city and, uh, the world since then. He’s a little younger than me, age wise I think.

“I haven’t gotten a good look at him, but he’s friends with the youngest member of the Long family, so he might be aristocratic? I don’t know,” They finish lamely, smiling a little.

Macaque grins. It’s not a nice one, one of his scheming grins he gets when he wants something and is figuring out how to get it. Spirit finds it familiar, considering Macaque always wants something from them, in one way or another. Why he feels the need to scheme is beyond them, because Spirit does most anything if asked politely.

Then again, they were a bit obstinate when Macaque and them first met. They made Macaque work for their favor, which is stupid. They should’ve listened better back then, and Macaque would maybe like them more now.

Most people don’t like them, though, so they suppose they should be used to it.

“Well then,” Macaque starts, rubbing his chin with his hand in thought. “That is something. Thanks kid. I’ll use that.”

Spirit brightens at the praise.

“You’re welcome!” they beam. “Um, anything else, sir?”

Macaque waves a hand. “Nah.”

He turns towards the horizon, and then, for some reason, looks back almost...shy? Spirit doesn’t really understand Macaque’s moods. He can flip flop in terms of good or bad feelings very quickly, with no rhyme nor reason Spirit can discern in regards to why.

They jump, scrambling to catch an item as Macaque just...tosses them a bag of what they soon realize is coins. A fair bit, if the weight is any indication. The bag is purple, with a silver drawstring for the pouch. They love purple and silver! Macaque doesn’t do silver, save for the token he made for them; his cuffs are gold.

They glance up at him in confusion.

“Got tired of carrying that,” Macaque says, looking away from them. “Figured you wouldn’t mind. Buy yourself something with it, or whatever.”

He glances back at them again. Spirit waves.

Macaque jumps off the cliff, and disappears.

Spirit heads back to town, after that, flitting through different shopping centers. They don’t really have a lot of money regularly, but they also don’t spend a lot of money regularly, so they’re typically okay with spending money when they want or need to.

The last thing that was a big purchase was getting their outfit fixed up for the third time. They always wait until the fabric is so worn that they can’t stitch it together to do so, because they try to be frugal, but keeping their one and only outfit in fair condition is a necessity.

Macaque had mentioned the practice, saying that it was how he kept his outfit pristine after centuries. Demons who could weave silk would restring the fabric line by line until it was simply the same but brand new, keeping the old string to be salvaged for whatever they could find within. It wasn’t terribly expensive, but was still a purchase to be saved up for.

They don’t shift into human form, staying in the alleyways where they’re hardly seen and glancing out to the streets to see if there’s anything neat to find instead of walking in the open as a human. Their eyes catch on a shop in the food district, a colorful storefront.

Bitter Sweets.

They can see the colorful creations set up in the window display. Sweets, pastries.

Pastries.

They remember pastries. It was such a rare thing to have. Father was always in the Inn, always toward the front side they’d have to cross to get to the indoor kitchen. They never wanted to cross Father. They knew what would happen.

But it became a game. Find whenever Father is gone, fixing up a room for a new customer, off to the town to find tourists, and sneak into the kitchen. Throw together the ingredients, skipping across the floor to find each and every item needed for the recipe. Mixing the ingredients into dough, kneading it and playing with it as Mother laughed, shaping it into its proper form, placing it in the stone oven and watching, waiting.

And then the dough would rise, and Spirit would lean in so close to watch that Mom would gently tug them back with a soft smile. She would pull out the finished product, and Spirit would tug on her sleeve and say ‘Now?’, and she would smile and shake her head and make them wait until it cooled.

They would pull apart the warm (but not hot!) balls of sticky bread just to see the inside and finally stuff a piece into their mouth, giggling. They’d take the lot and scamper off into safety with Mom, off into the back area where the infirmary was, where father couldn’t reach, the taste of sweetness on their tongue.

Spirit remembers pastries.

Entranced, they cross the street and enter the shop.

The inside is just as warm and bright as the outside, purples and pinks in pastel hues the general color scheme, with cool gray walls and white highlights to accent the colors. There’s a second display case by the front counter, a small table with two chairs off to the side, and a sweet smell of something baking that hits you both with nostalgia and hunger.

Spirit thinks about the last time they’ve eaten, and can’t quite remember. Then again, that’s not too terrible, considering they don’t need to eat regularly.

“Hello, dear!” A voice calls from further inside.

Spirit jumps at the sound, and stares as brown hair, purple skin, and red eyes greet them. The demon is of the spider variety, a cap on her head and smudges of flour and icing on her apron and face.

She has 3 eyes, just like them. But they’re not supposed to have three eyes, so it’s different. She’s allowed to like hers.

She wipes off her hands on her apron and steps up to the counter, a pleasant smile greeting them with her hands on her hips, ready to be of service. “What can I get for you today?”

Spirit stares for a moment.

Right. They have to order something.

“I-uh-um,” They stammer, because they didn't have time to prepare for this, and just a glance at the display case proves that they don’t know what any of the pastries are, nor do they know what the names mean.

And what did they even expect? That this random sweets shop would have the exact type of pastry they remembered making centuries ago with someone who has been gone so long it shouldn’t matter? Those things are lost to time, lost to a world they left behind when there was nothing left but blood and memories. The soft moments are held only by the crumbs left in their head; there’s nothing tangible here. They’re so stupid. So, so, so stupid.

“I can always help you pick something out, if you need help,” the shopkeep says, gentle as Spirit’s anxiety mounts.

No, they can’t ask for help, they’re not allowed to. They can’t do this, they should just run, run and never come back because this is stupid, what are they even looking for-

“Mooncakes!” they nearly shout, clapping a hand over their mouth a moment later, face bright red as they look away.

Their tail curls around their leg tight enough to hurt. The shopkeeper's eyes glance down at their leg, for a moment.

Spirit tries again, softer, and fidgets with their belt. “Um, if you, uh, if you have any mooncakes. I would...like those.”

They bite the inside of their cheek hard, just short of drawing blood.

Mooncakes are the only pastry they know by name. The only pastry that Father allowed and wanted them to make, special for New Years. That was when they could be in the kitchen for hours, baking batch after batch for customers in the Inn and to hand out to those in the infirmary.

Father never let them make anything outside of what people wanted, what could bring them in money. He was always so worried about costs, irate by a single lost yuan. They were only to do what could be profitable. Providing mooncakes to the tourists brought them business. That’s all he cared about.

Mom’s hospital business always made far more than the Inn ever did. It’s a point of pride they carry, that their Mother’s sunny disposition, kind nature, and astute healing practices made her far more of a matriarch than their Father liked. No one likes staying at an Inn with an owner who has such a cruel gaze, where the owner’s wife and child are too afraid to show their faces.

No one likes staying at an Inn where the owner doesn’t even have a face, but, well, Spirit wouldn’t know anything about that. Why would they? They’ve had claws for a long, long time, claws that are strong enough to rip and tear, but that has nothing to do with this. Nothing happened.

It’s none of your business. Stop asking.

The shopkeep smiles.

“Ah, Mooncakes,” she says. “It’s been a few months since the New Years celebration, but people are still coming around looking for them. I make a batch every other day just in case. Lucky for you, today’s the fresh batch!”

She turns away to the back, and Spirit lets out a sigh of relief.

“Thank you, Miss.”

“Call me Almond,” Almond calls from the back.

Spirit smiles. “Thank you, Miss Almond.”

They only ask for a few, maybe three, but after they pay and leave they find nearly ten in the bag they’ve been given. They idly chew on one, and almost stop in the street as the rush of nostalgia is accompanied by the taste of an expertly baked mooncake.

Watching the fireworks with Mom, bright lights up in the sky, sharing a mooncake with someone who cared, being carried home, half asleep under the stars and wanting to be nowhere else but where they were then, because the only place that was home was her arms because they were warm and safe and now they’re….

They blink back a couple tears and continue to chew.

They walk around aimlessly for a while, and eventually climb up a random building to sit on its ledge, letting the wind brush through their fur as they chew on their second mooncake.

They wonder if Red would share one with them, if they asked. They never stayed around long enough to share one with him on New Years. They almost pull out their cell phone and text him, but…well.

Red hasn’t been close for a long time. A rift was made because Spirit failed him, and they’ve always been a coward, too afraid to reach across the gap where something safe and special used to be.

They put their phone away.

A token buzzes in their pocket.

They dig into their pocket, pulling out the proper token.

Oh. It’s Spider Queen!

Spirit hasn’t heard from her in a long while, but they’re always happy to help, so they let the token whisk them to where they need to be.

They can hear the rush of cars overhead when they appear in what they assume is the sewers. Eerie green pods of something litter the walls and ground, and there’s a fair smattering of purple grey spider webs that lighten the dark stones.

“Spirit!”

They turn, and see the Spider Queen just a foot or so away, bathed in green light from a crater shaped pool that has a green, bubbling liquid boiling within. She’s grinning wide at them, and Spirit will say that, for a demon lost for half a millennium (that’s most demons, to be fair. They all disappeared when the Demon Bull King did. After all, if Monkey King could do that to someone, what would he do to them, the weaker ones?), she looks just as much of a threat as she did the last time they saw her.

They bow.

“Hello, Miss Queen,” they greet, and, after glancing back at the bag gripped tightly in their hand, they say “Would you like a mooncake?”

Spider Queen stares, for a moment, and then laughs. “Ha! My, aren’t you sweet?”

The sound of Spider Queen’s mechanical spider legs sends a shiver down Spirit’s spine, but Spirit has never minded spiders all that much. As long as bugs stay away from them, in the sense that they don’t crawl onto them, Spirit leaves them be. Spider Queen is more than just a bug, they suppose, and therein lies the danger.

They stand up, reach into their bag, and pull out a mooncake.

“This is just the thing I needed!” Spider Queen plucks the mooncake from Spirit’s hand. “You would not believe the day I just had!”

She takes a bite and Mmms at the taste while Spirit fidgets silently.

“You know, I had my favorite meal taken from me, but this might be the next best thing.”

Spider Queen is a lot like Macaque, in the sense that they both talk a lot and Spirit never knows what to say in reply. There’s a lot of bragging, grandiose statements and plotting, and then eventually an expectation of a response. Spirit is never good at responses, though.

Then again, Spider Queen likes to hear herself talk a little more than she cares for a response. She’s easier to handle, in that sense. Macaque is harder.

“Would you mind giving me a buff, sweetheart? As a favor. I’ve got a bigger task for you, and it requires a bigger explanation. Why waste the time, right?” Spider Queen holds out one of her mechanical spider legs.

“Right,” Spirit replies with a small smile. “Of course.”

Lucky that they keep the polish for this sort of stuff on hand. They pull it out with a rag and start to polish the metal, working out old scratches and making them disappear until the surface glitters like new.

“This town has become a hotbed of activity since ol’ Demon Bull King jumped out from the netherworld,” She starts, talking as Spirit works. “I thought I’d sneak in and see what the fuss was about, maybe grab a meal or two. It has been ages since the Spider Queen has ruled, and now that we’re allowed to play, I’m planning on rebuilding my empire! The monkey boy came in and stole my meal, but he left behind a little piece of himself that I can use.”

She chuckles darkly at that notion.

“Monkey Boy?” Spirit inquires, moving onto the second leg.

“Ugh,” Spider Queen growls under her breath. “Monkey King’s newest pet project. He comes tearing in, stealing my perfectly good dinner, that little—” She cuts herself off.

Spirit hands her another mooncake. She makes a motion with it in the air, huffing indignantly before continuing. “His hair is enough to give my venom the kick it needs, but I don’t have the minions I used to. I need tech.”

Spirit starts on the fourth leg. The position they have to be to buff is uncomfortable, a strain on their back, but to complain would be stupid, so they deal with the pain.

“That’s where you come in, dear,” Spider Queen turns to them.

Spirit glances up.

“You’re good at getting information, and you probably understand this modern stuff better than I do.” She waves a hand, almost dismissive. “I need someone to build me some spider robots to transport the venom. You don’t need to worry about the transport, I’ve got Huntsman for that, but they don’t know what to look for.”

Spirit worked on finishing the fourth leg while they respond. “Of course, Miss Queen. Does it matter if they’re a demon or not?” They like to know specifics.

“Pfft—no self respecting demon knows anything about these new fangled devices! We thrive off of power and magic, not tech like phones! Those are things humans use as a crutch,” Spider Queen rolls her eyes, huffing.

“...Right,” Spirit replies, pointedly not getting offended on Red’s behalf.

It’s okay. She doesn’t know she’s being rude. Spirit stands up, having finished with buffing Spider Queen’s armory.

“I’ll get on it right away, Miss Queen. Anything else?” Spirit finds that being polite does wonders, and Spider Queen likes it when she’s called a Queen.

“Nope! I’m gonna relax. Good luck!” Spider Queen’s legs sound with metal clicks as she leaves, waving as she does so.

Spirit waits until they’re sure Spider Queen is far enough away for them to relax. They turn, walking toward where they can hear open rushing water. The sewers are essentially a river, and all rivers lead to the sea eventually. Macaque taught them that.

It takes them around an hour to walk to the end of the sewers, climbing out of the pipe and sitting atop it.

They’re just a few hundred yards away from the city’s docks. They dangle their feet over the edge of the pipe and watch the rushing sewer water drain out into the sea.

They pull out their phone.

Red Son would likely know how to work robotics, but they’re supposed to find a human. Plus, they don’t want to involve Red in this sort of stuff. They can probably ask Mei. She doesn’t know about their favor business, so she won’t be any the wiser, and she won’t feel guilty! It’s the perfect plan.

‘Mei.

Hello! It’s Spirit. I was wondering about the technology of the city. It is very advanced. How was it constructed? Who keeps it running?

Let me know if you know!

Spirit’

That should be inconspicuous enough to get Mei to start discussing things. They don’t like dancing around subjects, but they don’t think this is the sort of thing they can just tell Mei about. Mei is the type to have more of a moral backbone than Spirit does. Spirit has their rules, of course, their lines in the sand, but they do most anything regardless of consequence. What is good, what is bad; they don’t have the power to deliberate on that sort of thing.

If they were powerful enough that no one could hurt them, they would choose good, of course. They don’t enjoy most of the work they do, they don’t find satisfaction in it besides the comfort of knowing that they’re a little safer, but it’s necessary. They don’t have the luxury of knowing powerful people to protect them. They don’t have anyone who would.

So they protect themself, somehow. It works.

They pocket their phone, and head back towards the city.

They take a detour to the forest, because being in the sewers did nothing to keep them clean. There’s a stream a few miles out of town that’s perfect for washing in, though, so that’s where they end up, carefully scrubbing the scent out of their clothes and fur and sunbathing on a rock. They sprawl across it, back curved as their head hangs off one end and their feet and tail the other. They have to bend their legs a bit, because the rock isn’t tall enough to keep every part of them off of the ground, but it’s mostly comfortable.

Just for a few hours, they let themself rest, polishing off the last few mooncakes as their fur and outfit dry.

They end up falling asleep and wake up as stars dot the sky. The more they stare, the more their vision becomes unfocused, so that the lights triple in number. It’s fun, sometimes, to have lopsided eyes. It creates an interesting view.

They stretch, grabbing their now dry clothes and putting them on. They’ll take a leisurely walk back to the city, maybe pick up breakfast. Maybe. They already ate something this week, and it’s not like they need much. Why waste the money if it’s for something unnecessary.

Then again, Comes a voice that sounds a little bit like Macaque, a little bit like Father, and mostly like a part of themself they prefer to ignore; Were the mooncakes necessary?

Spirit doesn’t have an answer to that.

An hour’s walk gives them plenty of time to introspect, but Spirit prefers to avoid that. Their mind is a winding road paved back centuries, but while it started with lovingly placed bricks somewhere along the way the materials were left shattered. Glass and broken stone leaves feet bloody and pained, and you can’t go around, only through. So Spirit chooses neither, and leaves the rest of the road to be forgotten.

The road they’re on now, the present, is made with a mosaic of materials they managed to cobble together, after everything broke. It’s bumpy, there are cracks in the pavement, and you have to be careful. Spirit is always careful, though; they’ve had the practice.

The issue with being so, so careful is that leaving behind the earliest stretches of road means they remember little of their childhood. Spirit would never say it aloud, but they don’t remember their mother’s face. To find that picture would mean flipping through the bloody pages of their photo album, and Spirit is, at the end of it all, a coward.

That’s enough thought for now. We have to move things along.

Spirit thinks they can have a leisurely morning, but yet another token buzzes in their pocket, much to their chagrin. Spirit wouldn’t say it, but sometimes it’s exhausting to be at everyone’s beck and call. They signed up for it, however, they’ve no room to complain.

Reaching into their pocket, they pull out Yin and Jin’s token. They frown, if only because Yin and Jin call them the most frequently and, often, the favors they’re called for are mundane and silly.

Though, compared to the harder, less moral favors, they find these preferable.

They consider letting the token ring. They’ve done that before. Yin and Jin have so many favors put down that they get a little cavalier with how they interact with the pair. The two used Spirit a lot before they knew how the system worked and realized using them as a crutch was a bad idea.

Apparently owing Spirit something is a bad thing. Spirit can’t imagine why.

They sigh. As much as Yin and Jin are long-time clients, that’s no excuse for being late or lazy. They take a deep breath, and let the token whisk them away.

They arrive within the city, at the front step of a hideout. Spirit recognizes the alley once they swivel their head around. It’s a fair few miles in the middle of the city, where a lot of nooks and crannies lie between the bustling streets. Perfect for hiding. It’s not too far from the main road that it would be invisible, though Spirit isn’t sure if that’s because Yin and Jin want to be near the main road or if they just didn’t think about it. With their general intelligence, it’s 50/50.

They step inside, posture straight. All business.

“Hello,” they greet.

Inside is a rather sparse dwelling. There’s what appears to be an unused kitchen off to the right of the main room. Said room is a large expanse, and a dirty one at that. At the back of it is a board, covered in pins and string, tying threads together in myriad ways that Spirit can’t quite decipher. They see Mei up there. A picture of Pigsy. The rest are unrecognizable.

“Hey!” Yin calls.

Spirit’s gaze drops down to them. They’ve been taller than the two for centuries.

“Got a favor for ya,” Jin continues.

“I assumed,” Spirit replies. “What do you need me to do?

Red eyes squint with twin sharp-toothed grins, and they pull out a large book.

“Well you see,” Yin starts.

“We wanna go after the Monkie Kid, yeah?” Jin continues.

“So we made a plan,” Yin finishes.

They open the book, straight to the middle, and on the page are...two steps illustrated. Pretty self explanatory, in the sense that Spirit can tell that they want to use some sort of artifact to trap the Monkey King’s successor.

“So, we figured, Calabash,” Jin points to the first picture. “We capture him in it, keep ‘im in there, right?”

“Right,” Yin agrees.

They look to Spirit.

“Right?” Spirit says.

They both nod.

“The thing is,” Jin moves on, which Spirit appreciates because they don’t know where this conversation is going, “The calabash is uh, in a museum.”

“It’s old,” Yin supplies.

“You want me to retrieve it for you?” Spirit parses out.

Yin and Jin smile again, all teeth. It used to be intimidating, but, well, Spirit is older, and smarter.

Spirit is scared of everyone, but there’s a certain safety that comes with knowing that when push comes to shove, they just need to kill one to incapacitate the other. They’ve seen the two when one is absent without cause. They can use that, if needed. Not that they would, but they could. That makes them safe.

“Now you got it,” Jin crosses his arms over his chest.

“Sound good?” Yin asks.

“Do I have a time limit?” Spirit likes to know the conditions.

They’re already working on one favor, and if they have to worry about the time limit of another favor, then they have to balance things. Not that they do much else when not working on favors, but still. They like to be a little organized.

“We’re gonna order from the restaurant the kid works at in a week or two,” Yin explains.

Spirit nods. That gives them time. They have a phone now, too, and Mei taught them how to search stuff on it, so they can look up the museum once they’re out.

“Okay,” They respond. “Anything else?”

Yin and Jin glance at each other. They have this way of communicating without words, and Spirit finds it kind of cool. There’s a twitch of an eyebrow on one face, a small mouth movement on the other. Their expressions don’t really change, just shift a little.

“Nah, we’re good,” Yin waves them off.

Spirit nods and vanishes without a farewell.

All in all, they don’t dislike Yin and Jin. Sure, the two are loud and rambunctious, but so is Red, and Spirit could never dislike Red. In a way, they’re almost jealous of the pair. They have each other. They have someone who will never leave, who could never leave. Inseparable, two against the world.

One is the loneliest number, and maybe Spirit is just a little jealous to know a Yin who isn’t always alone.

As they head off, scaling the wall and choosing to traverse the city over rooftops, they get a text. It’s from Mei, a response to their earlier query. Spirit stops, tail swishing back and forth as they perch on the edge of a roof, toes curled over the edge to grip it as they squat, leaning down to read the text.

‘hey spirit!

the city is the sum of hundreds of years of advancement, with tens of hundreds of programmers and hardware engineers building it up! ive been looking up a lot of them as inspo for my work in tech.

i like this one programmer, syntax. hes a mystery, theres only one public picture of him, but hes responsible for most of the tech in the city! he was the leading programmer for the weather tower and has a bunch of patents he makes money off. total recluse lol no one knows where he could even live near! ive always wanted to meet him. lemme send you some articles!!!!!’

Interspersed between the sentences are a deluge of emojis. A lot of green hearts, a couple dragons, some rain clouds when mentioning the weather tower. Beneath the text are a few articles. Spirit squints. They think they press their finger on those.

Sure enough, pressing their finger on the article pulls it up in a...they think Mei called it a web browser? They should ask her next time they’re called over.

Or...well, Mei doesn’t know it, but they’re doing Spirit a favor, giving them this information, and if there’s anything Spirit fears, it’s being in someone’s debt. She doesn’t know, but she could find out, and if she did, she could use them, she could hurt them—

Well, Mei doesn’t seem the type, but one never knows.

‘Mei.

Thanks. I’ll read them soon. Hey, do you want to meet someplace? I know your mother was not thrilled at my offer to teach you swordfighting, but I am still willing to. As long as we meet away from your house. I wouldn’t want to get in trouble.

Let me know!

Spirit.’

That should even things out. A good lesson or two, maybe more. Spirit would prefer to do more than less when repaying a debt, just to be sure.

They start to peruse the different articles. The only public image they have of this programmer is striking. He’s got eccentric hair and a small mustache. He frowns at the camera, clearly displeased with having his picture taken, a pristine lab coat on and a pair of bright green glasses adorning his face. There’s a hand on his shoulder, holding him in place as the picture is taken.

The only known thing that he does is go to a specific coffee shop. Evidently, anytime he goes, the cameras in the area including phones stop working, thus contributing to the lack of photos. People like to chat about him, simply because of the mystery of it.

They get a text back from Mei.

‘sounds great! i know a place. text u the deets later! <3’

Spirit smiles.

They decide to stake out the coffee shop this Syntax goes to. It’s toward the outskirts of the city, small, with a reputation for using specially designed and grown beans that no one else can replicate. Supposedly. It keeps a low profile, as well as a very high end coffee shop can, but most people are priced out of it anyway. From what Spirit read from reviews, a lot of people would get this coffee as a treat, something to save up for as a present on a weekend. It’s a large place, and people often go to sit and relax for a while with their drink.

Syntax, evidently, goes there up to five times a week, to the point that his drink is memorized by everyone who works there. He pays in cash, to avoid any trace that he was there, and then disappears. People say he avoids being followed.

People, though. Mortals. They can’t see souls the way Spirit can.

They catch him on day two of their stakeout, and they sit, waiting, as he orders. Cash is exchanged, and he walks away. No one tries to follow him, but Spirit must, so they will.

They blink, and the world bursts into different colors. Souls of all different shades, constantly interacting with one another. Syntax’s soul is a neon green, with lavender lines within that resemble code. The soul takes on the whole of the person, after all. People more powerful can have souls that show it. Spirit likes that. They like knowing that they can always check if people are lying.

They follow, and soon realize why Syntax is so hard to follow. Every turn and twist he sends out a...well, he can’t make clones, but they’re digital recreations of himself that continue walking in a different direction than the real Syntax is. They’re near perfect, able to fool anyone who just saw them as is, but they don’t have souls.

So Spirit follows the soul.

It’s a good hour walk, not that Syntax walks all the way. Once he’s out of the main city area, he hops into a hover car that seems like a personal project (if the paint job is anything to say about it) and blasts off. Spirit follows the trail, far enough behind that they can’t see Syntax but close enough that they can catch his colors in their eye.

It’s a good twenty minutes before they reach Syntax’s house. It looks like a fortress, a large mansion gated and hidden. Spirit takes a picture, grabs Spider Queen’s token, and disappears.

They were just told to locate him, after all. They prefer that. As much as Spirit is good at their job, they don’t like the thought of having to kidnap anyone, because the person would likely scream, or cry, or beg, and Spirit would have to see that.

It’s easier if they don’t see it. They already know it isn’t right, they don’t need the painful reminder.

Spider Queen’s lair is as dark and damp as they remember, with the added addition of an expansion of the green pool of bubbling liquid. It has spread to little pods scattered about the place, glowing ominously with newfound energy.

“Miss Queen?” They call.

Green eyes blink from the dark, and Spirit stays very still as she comes into view.

“Back so soon?” Spider Queen leans back on her mech, grinning like...what was the phrase Spirit had heard. Like a cat who had caught the canary? That’s it.

Spirit doesn’t know why it has to be a canary. Cats eat plenty of birds. And mice! Odd.

“I have what you want,” Spirit replies, keeping it short and to the point. “He’s an engineer and a programmer, and a recluse, so people probably won’t notice if he goes missing. I have a picture of his house, and I can take you to it if you want, bu_t”

“That won’t be necessary,” Spider Queen waves a hand. She clears her throat with intention, and Spirit tilts their head to the side as another figure comes out from the shadows.

“My Queen,” Huntsman’s voice is as gravelly as ever, and he bows a little in greeting.

Spirit gives him a small wave. He rolls his eyes at them.

Fair enough.

“I need you to hunt down this human. He’s important to my debut as Queen of the world! Spirit here has the details.”

Spider Queen gestures to them, and Spirit jumps a little as the weight of seemingly eyes all fall upon them.

“O-oh!” They fumble to pull out their phone. “I have-uh-I have a photo of his house, so you can use that, and, uh—”

They look down, and Huntsman is suddenly very, very close to them. They take a wary step back.

He sniffs them.

“Were you just there?” He asks.

Spirit slowly nods, holding out their phone so Huntsman can see the picture of Syntax’s house. He glances down at it, and then after scanning it over, nods decisively.

“I’ll have him here by tomorrow,” he promises.

“He-uh-!” Spirit raises a hand, pressing their fingers to their mouth in apprehension. “His house looks very high tech. There’ll uh-there’ll probably be, um, defenses.”

They haven’t talked to Huntsman or Goliath much, in the centuries they’ve been around to help Spider Queen with different things, but Huntsman gave them a knife once. Said it was because they looked pathetic without a way to defend themself. They didn’t want to tell him that they already had a weapon, so they kept the knife. He got them one with a purple grip, even! It was a nice gesture, and Spirit would like Huntsman to stay alive.

Not that they ever really want anyone dead, but they know it’s often an eventuality, and saving every person, wanting to keep every person they know around is hard, and will only lead to pain. They know from experience. Besides, they’re pretty sure no one would do anything to keep them alive. If a tool breaks you can always get a new one, so Spirit is expendable, and expendable means that you can’t be expected to be kept safe. They know from experience. But they like certain hands that wield them over others, so they’d like those ones to remain, at least.

Huntsman grins, at that.

“I love it when they fights back,” he almost purrs before skittering off.

Spirit watches him leave, head tilted to the side. They suppose it makes sense that he likes hunting, considering his name is Huntsman. They wonder if his name was because of his type or his profession. Or maybe his type dictated his profession? Then again, there isn’t such a spider type as queen, so that’s a little silly to think about.

“Thank you, dear,” Spider Queen says, jerking Spirit out of their thoughts.

Spirit bows. “Of course, Miss Queen.”

When they stand up, there’s a bag of money—smaller than the one Macaque gave them, but hefty nonetheless—being offered to them.

“You’re too skinny,” Spider Queen says. “I can’t have a servant of mine looking half starved! Do something about it.”

Spirit blinks. They didn’t think they were too skinny. Sure, they could feel their ribs easily, but that's nice, because whenever they break their ribs they can figure out which one super fast. It’s useful. They don’t want to disappoint Spider Queen, though, and while she didn’t say it was a favor she is giving Spirit money, so they might as well get something to eat as a job well done gift.

They ignore how that thought makes their stomach squirm. How they feel about the jobs they are given does not matter. It never has.

“Of course,” They repeat, taking the bag. With another bow, they leave.

Thankfully, this trip hasn’t ruined their clothes, so they don’t need to wash them. They leave through a manhole cover in an alley, and when they peek their head out to see where they are, Bitter Sweets stares them down from across the street.

Well, at least they know they’ll like something from the shop, right?

The bell above the door rings in their ears long after the sound leaves the room, and Almond comes in with a smile that is slowly becoming familiar. It’s almost motherly, but Spirit wouldn’t say that, because if they did they’d have to run. Run before the motherly figure burns to dust, disappears for the sole reason of being motherly to them, of all people.

So for now, they say it is kind, and warm, and comforting.

“Spirit!” she grins up at them.

Spirit smiles hesitantly back.

“More mooncakes?” Almond prompts.

“Yes,” They nod, toes curling in excitement.

Nostalgia hurts a little, but it’s nice, too. “And—” they start, because Almond is kind, and open, and soft and Spirit can be brave a little. “Maybe, um, you could recommend some stuff? I-uh,” They rub the back of their neck sheepishly. “I don’t know the names of most of this.”

They gesture to the display case lamely.

Almond’s smile somehow gets softer, and her eyes light up with excitement. Spirit’s tail swishes back and forth with a calm joy from making someone happy.

“Of course,” Almond replies.

Getting the Calabash is, unsurprisingly, boring. Stealing an item is much easier than tracking a person. One quick search and they find it in a museum, nestled near the center of the city. Sneaking in is easy, because while they are tall, they’re quiet, flexible, and smart. That, and the people here are very lax in security. Being so used to peacetime makes people complacent. In a way, Spirit is relieved that they have known conflict most of their life. It keeps them sharp.

They don’t know what to do in peacetime. There’s always something to do, a job to accomplish. A fight to help with. What else can they do?

The only thing that gives them pause is the existence of two Calabashes. One, older and far larger, is stated as the original. Evidently, using a mix of demon magic and more modern technology, a new one was made, one that aimed to capture rather than kill.

Yin and Jin never specified which one they wanted. If Spirit was to guess, they know the pair would want the original. The one that melts whoever is trapped within. The one that kills.

Spirit doesn’t kill children. And they don’t know the Monkey King’s successor, but he’s a child. Younger than they are.

Are they a child? Were they ever?

So they hedge their bets on the idea that Yin and Jin won’t notice the difference, and pick the newer, kinder one.

The pair does not notice. They’re a bit scatterbrained like that. Or maybe they don’t care.

Once the Calabash is secured and delivered, Spirit sits atop a random building, chewing on leftover pastries from their last visit to Almond’s bakery. The sunset is looking awfully nice, but Spirit thinks that the charm is lost once you lose someone to watch them with, so they pull out their phone.

In the news section, there is a small article about Syntax abandoning his favorite coffee shop. The article supposes that he picked another spot to get his caffeinated beverages. There are thousands of comments speculating, wondering where he could have gone.

Spirit knows the truth. The weight of that, the guilt, sits at the bottom of their stomach like a stone.

But there’s a hundred, a thousand, a hundred thousand stones sitting there, and they’ve been dragging Spirit down for a long time. One more isn’t going to change much, isn’t going to drag them deeper down than they already are. They’ve been drowning for centuries. Drowning, mouth clenched shut, holding in their final breath, as if the moment they let it go they’d finally succumb to the suffocation pressing against them on all sides.

When they were younger, they’d claw to the surface, take a breath or two, before another stone weighed them lower. The sunlight doesn’t reach them, with how deep they are now. Nothing does, because Spirit is alone. That’s what happens when you hurt everyone around you, isn’t it?

One of these days, they were going to let go. One of these days, they’d open their mouth, and finally they would be able to scream.

Sometimes all Spirit wants to do is let go, scream, and drown.

They look at the sunset. It’s looking awfully nice, don’t you think?

#kitkat1003 #Yin Spirit #lego monkie kid #monkie kid #monkie kid oc

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hops-hunny · 3 years

Text

On Your Marks, Get Set, Go!!

Pairing: Neville Longbottom x Reader

Pronouns: She/Her

Word Count: 2.5k

Request: @de4d-s0up“36,38,12 for Neville!❤️ fem reader and surprise me it can be fluff or smut OH OK IM EXCITED NOW😌 CONGRATS ON 300 BABES SO PROUD OF YOU<3”

Summary: (Y/n) spends so much time in Neville’s shadow that when she’s brought to the light she suffers from some massive stage fright and forgets her lines (not literally but like this sounds clever and you’ll get it soon. Just fuckin read it, yeah?

Warnings: None! A little angst but nothing too big, just majority fluff fluff fluff!

A/N: Can I just say that I love how well these flow together?? LIKE UGH YOU ALWAYS GIVE ME SOME GOOD SHIT TO WORK WITH!! This was very fun to write so tysm!

36.Admirer

38.Caught

12.“I’ve always liked you, you’ve just never noticed.”

If you were to ask (Y/n) who was the most attractive guy in the castle, she would 1000% say it was Neville Longbottom. For as long as she could remember, she was absolutely mesmerized by him and with time, he had gone from the adorable little guy she’d see in the hall into a charming young man who she could not be anywhere near. Yes he had a tendency to be a bit socially awkward sometimes but if anything, that added to his charm and if anything that made it even harder to talk to him. She didn’t want to have to face such an awkward interaction on why she was approaching him despite them not being friends nor having any classes together.

So she watched from afar, following him around the halls, sticking close to him whenever she could. It wasn’t in a creepy way however! She just found him to be beautiful and she couldn’t help herself. The more she thought about it she did sound like a stalker but that was such a strong word. And if he didn’t know of her existence could there really be any harm to what she was doing? That’s what she thought to herself as she stood behind the pillar, observing him as he conversed with his friends. Neville was currently laughing at something Dean had said as he shoved Seamus. (Y/n) couldn’t help the smile that was beginning to form at the boy’s laughter. His smile was simply contagious, a ray of sunshine indeed! She sighed to herself softly before biting the inside of her cheek.

“I wish he’d smile at me like that.” she murmured softly as to not alert them of her presence. If only she could speak, say even just one word to him. But alas, anytime she even attempted an utterance of a word her brain would short circuit and she went running the opposite way. It just wasn’t fair! She held tightly onto her books as dust fell from above her head, her (e/c) eyes growing wide as dust made its way into her nose. “O-oh no. Please, please ple-” she was cut off by the exact thing she didn’t want, a loud sneeze. She groaned, training her eyes to the ground in front of her. However if her luck wasn’t bad already a familiar pair of brown shoes stopped right in front of her. (Y/n) quickly snapped her head up looking at the boy of her affections. Neville stood in front of her, searching the pocket of vest for something until he pulled out a pale yellow handkerchief.

“You alright, love? That was some sneeze.” He said, holding out the small fabric to her as he offered her a small smile. She was stunned, Neville was talking to her. She kept her eyes locked with him with a shocked expression mouth agape. ‘Don’t just stand there!! Speak! Move! Do SOMETHING!!’. She slowly began to take small steps backwards, shaking her head ‘no’ frantically as she ran off down the hallway not even noticing she had dropped the little brown leather notebook she always kept on her. The gryfindor boy made a soft frown as he reached down, picking up the book. He flipped it open looking for a name relieved when he found a name on the inner cover. “(Y/n) (L/n), 6th year. Huh, I wonder why I’ve never seen her before?” He said to no one in particular as he walked back to Seamus and Dean who were laughing at the scene that had just played out in front of them.

“Geez Nev, we knew you were bad with women but that’s a whole new level!” Seamus choked out through laughs, reaching a freckled hand up to wipe the tears that had formed in his state of hysteria.

“Yeah seriously! What the hell did you even say?” Dean said, coming down from his laughter. Neville frowned some, shrugging his shoulders as he scratched the back of his head.

“I’ve got no clue. I saw she had sneezed and offered her my cloth and after I did that she just ran off! Is there something in my teeth? Do I smell bad?” He questioned, sniffing at his pits to check for any suspicious odor but found nothing but the smell of his body wash and deodorant.

“No you don’t smell bad. Well no worse than usual that is.” Seamus said with a shrug. Neville rolled his eyes flicking him on the forehead with a scowl.

“You’re one to talk! Your natural scent is smoke and sweat, I don’t wanna hear it from you.” He grumbled out, shifting his eyes back to the book in his hands. The girl was clearly frightened of him, how was he supposed to get it back to her? “I just feel so bad, I don’t know what I did to make her so scared of me. I’ll wait a bit before I give it back to her.”

----------------------------------------

And he had done just that. (Y/n) had noticed her journal was missing but didn’t think much of it. She had a habit of losing things and assumed it would get back to her in some way and plus, it wasn’t that important. It was just filled with notes and sketches of the different mushrooms she had found on the castle grounds. Whenever she had a free period or a bit of free time on her hands, one of her favorite things to do was identify rare breeds of fungi and other various plants. And although she had missed doing that, it had only been a week and it's not like she didn’t have parchment. The only thing that was frustrating about that was that parchment and scrolls lacked the same convenience that notebooks had. (she didn’t know why Hogwarts wouldn’t just get with the times. Where were they, Camelot?)However she had faith one of her friends would bring it back to her. (Y/n) didn’t have many which is why she wondered what was taking so long for the return of her notebook.

“Hey guys, have you seen my notebook? You know the little brown one I always carry?” she asked, plopping down on the old worn down couch in the (y/h/h) common room.

“Hmm, nope! Last time I saw it you were carrying it. Why? Did you lose it?” Gwen said as she continued to read her book.

“You’re so bad with keeping track of things. You’d lose your head if it wasn’t on your shoulders.” Marco said, rolling his eyes at his friend's irresponsible behavior.

“Oh come on that was ONE time! When the potion said it’d blow your head off I didn’t think it meant quite literally!” she huffed out, crossing her arms across her chest defensively. Her eyes lit up as she was reminded of a detail. “And besides, didn’t you drink that exact potion afterwards because you wanted to know what it felt like to have no head?”

Marco was silent, whistling as he avoided eye contact with his friend before his eyes landed on a familiar lanky brunette holding a certain little book that had been missing. “Hey, isn’t that the guy you fancy? He’s got your book!” he said, pointing in the direction in which Neville was coming from. (Y/n) gasped, gathering her stuff as she muttered something about ‘being late to class’ but right as she stood up, she was yanked back down by Gwen. “Woah, not so fast track star! How are you going to get your book if you leave?”

“Y-you can give it to me! Tell him you know me. See ya!” she said standing back up but once again, she was yanked back down. “Would you quit it?!”

“No can do buckeroo. You’ve gotta get your book back somehow. Neville’s a pretty honorable guy, I highly doubt he’s gonna give your book to some people who could possibly know you. He’d wanna give it directly to you himself.” Gwen said, still not looking up from her book. (Y/n) let out a defeated sigh. She was right. Neville is the type to make sure to get back a lost item to the person themselves to avoid any chance of them not receiving it. She knew that better than anyone.

Neville wiped his free hand on his pants leg, eliminating the thin layer of sweat that had gathered on it. He was nervous to say the least. It wasn’t that he didn’t have any female friends, it was just that the female friends he did have didn’t look at him like he was you-know-who himself. Since their last meeting, he had thought about the girl a lot. He couldn’t recall seeing her before and he wasn’t the type of person people hated without any rhyme or reason so it baffled him. Someone found him intimidating? That was a new one! Neville had taken the liberty of asking his friends what he could do to be more welcoming for people but they all just seemed to laugh in his face or scoff.

He found the question to be an absurd one for him to be asking too but for some reason, all he wanted to do was be less scary. Less scary and more approachable to the girl so maybe, maybe he could talk to the mysterious beauty who he’d never notice. That was another thing that made him quite angry. In all his years of Hogwarts, how hadn’t he noticed such a rose in its prime? Even in her frazzled state her refinement was more than apparent. She had beautiful glowing (e/c) eyes, the cutest little nose, and two beautiful petals that were more commonly known as lips. Even now as he got closer and she had that same damn look on her face, she was the most beautiful girl he had ever had the pleasure of laying eyes on and he had done a lot more than just laying his eyes on girl’s.

“I-I believe this belongs to you?” He said, holding the book out in front of her. However, all the girl did was stare up at him with wide (e/c) eyes and her pretty little lips parted in horror. The girl to her right cleared her throat, nudging her not so blasé

in her action. (Y/n) shifted to her eyes before quickly bringing them back to Neville as she closed her mouth. “Well it’s not that I believe it belongs to you, I know it’s yours. You dropped it when you ran away from me the other day.” He said looking away as he scratched the back of his head with his hand, running his fingers through his luscious locks of brown. “Now that I think about it, that doesn’t automatically make it yours. I’m sorry for assuming! You could’ve been holding onto it for a friend or or-”

“It’s hers. Thank you Neville, that was very kind of you and I’m sure (Y/n) appreciates it. Right (Y/n)?” Gwen asked, handing her the book from the boy's hands. (Y/n) just continued to stare. No movement, no indication that she did appreciate it.

“I’ve always liked you, you just never noticed.” she said softly, continuing on with her intense gaze. Her breath hitched as her eyes almost popped out of her head, both hands flying to her mouth. Not one person spoke, all her friend’s and Neville were just as shocked as she was at the announcement. “No, no, no. Fuck!” she mumbled with a great emphasis on the last word. She quickly stood up, running away making sure to not forget her book this time.

(Y/n) continued to whip and run through the hallway, going as fast as her legs could carry her. She paid no mind to where she was going and quite frankly she didn’t care. Anywhere far away from Neville was good enough. If him catching her behind the pillar that day was the biggest embarrassment of the year, this was the biggest embarrassment of the century. How could she speak so freely, so carelessly? All those years of sneaking around, admiring him from a far were thrown down the drain. Things would never be able to go back to how they were without him noticing her there. She slid down the wall, pulling her knees to her chest as she sobbed loudly. It didn’t matter, no one came to this hallway so she didn’t have to think about what would happen if someone heard her. She sniffled, wiping her nose on her sleeve before glancing at the book at her side. Out of a fit of rage she picked it up, throwing it at the wall in front of her. She watched as the book fell with a thud, pages open to a random observation she had made about a spore specimen.

“I’m starting to think I’m bad luck. It appears as though anytime I’m around, you’ve got tears coming out of those pretty little eyes of yours.” Neville said softly, kneeling in front of the girl. (Y/n) brought her head up, (e/c) eyes staring into hazel ones.

“You...you think my eyes are pretty?” she questioned, tilting her head some as she sat up a bit straighter. Neville reached forward, gripping her small hand in his much larger one.

“Not just pretty, the prettiest. After I met with you that first time, I couldn’t stop thinking about them all night. Despite how horrified you looked at me, they were still the prettiest shade of (e/c) I’d ever seen.” He said, smiling softly at the girl’s flustered expression. “You know I’m a bit relieved to know that you like me.”

“R-really? Why’s that?” (Y/n) questioned, gripping his hand back as he helped pull her off the ground.

“Because, that means you don’t think of me as some scary monster! I was beginning to grow quite worried, y’know?” He said, chuckling a bit. (Y/n) gasped, smacking him on the shoulder a bit.

“Hey! I was not that bad….was I?” she asked, looking into his eyes. Neville bit his lip, looking away from her. “Oh come on! Can you blame me though? I’ve had a crush on you since we were on the train to Hogwarts for the first time. I remember I was so angry that I wasn’t the one who found Trevor for you.” she said, clinging onto his arm a bit. Neville looked a bit shocked at that revelation. Most girls didn’t pay him much attention till around 5th year, had she really liked him for that long?

“Does that mean that this,” he leaned down, pecking her on the lips before pulling away, “Was your first kiss?” He asked. (Y/n) had that same expression she had during the encounter a bit ago however this time, something was a bit different. She gripped his shirt before bringing his lips back down to hers kissing him with feverish intensity. Neville let out a small moan, gripping at her waist tightly as he pinned her against the wall causing her feet to dangle in the air.

(Y/n) was right on something, things would never be the same. But sometimes change was good. That was proven to her as Neville had his tongue down her throat.

#neville longbottom x reader #neville #neville longbottom #neville longbottom x y/n #neville longbottom x you #neville x y/n #neville x reader #harry potter #harry potter imagine #harry potter imagines

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enokvirkow · 2 years

Note

There was something immediately different about Rose's demeanour when the small party returned. "I need all of you to come inside and sit down. Leave the horses to the stable hands." She rarely, if ever, allowed others to tend to her horse. Her father was like-minded and neither Enok or Loqi were shy about tending to their own animals. It was obvious that something important was on her mind.

"So..." Rose opened her hands, fingers flexed. "I don't have good tidings." The twins were no where to be seen or heard of. Any other time, they would have made an appearance. "Ariadne's missing. The ship she sailed on wrecked." Rose teared up a little. Holding onto such heavy news had weighed on her. "Vergil is in search of her. Of any news." Sniffing, she swiped away tears with a fisted hand.

They were a real troop. No, more than that. Comrades. Family.

That was it. Family. The last time he had felt so comfortable among other had been with his own blood family, all before life had gone sideways a lot. He hadn't thought he'd get that sense of belonging again. But with those people...? He did.

He loved each of them. But he loved one especially.

So when they returned, he was ready to annoy the twins again. Give Vergil a headlock and then go to Ari... he wanted to tell her all about what he had seen. And he wanted to give her a little gift he had found. It was safely tucked in a small blue satchel, embroidered with silver thread showing the moon and stars. He wanted to see her smile at the little gift.

And he wanted to listen to all the things she had found out since they had parted ways. Because Ari was always discovering something new. Be it in the stars or in her surroundings.

But there was none of that. No stories, no hands to put that satchel in, no spark in her eyes and no smile to behold.

She wasn't here.

She was gone.

Missing.

That was what Rose called it. But the addition of her ship being wrecked... it made it sound like a lie right away. You didn't simply go missing after a shipwreck. So very little went missing and resurfaced again.

Most died.

Drowned and sunk to the endless darkness of the sea.

It was like Rose's words punched him in the gut. Enok just sat there and stared at her, couldn't really process at as he refused to believe it. Ari couldn't just go... She was supposed to be here. She wouldn't simply die like this. She was powerful. The most powerful human Enok knew. A storm couldn't kill her.

The sea, which had always been his home, couldn't take this part of his heart from him.

Shaking his head slightly, Enok refused. refused to listen to this, refused to hear this, refused to believe it. He could tell by the sting in his eyes that there were tears dripping over his cheeks. He had no control of that. Neither of the emptiness that tried to tear him down.

No.

He could hear their voices. Loqi telling him to stop, that he had no idea where they were. Rose said something, too. But Enok got up right away, turned around and closed his hand tightly around the little blue satchel. Heading back for the stables. For his horse. He would travel across every coast if need be. He would find her. Vergil was her twin, he had that bond to her, surely he could use help. Surely he could use someone at his side. And there was no rhyme or reason to his actions at the moment, but Enok felt like he had to do something. Now. Because otherwise it would tear him apart.

@firxga @rebelichor

#firxga #rebelichor #AU | medieval #>:c

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karlajoyner · 4 years

Text

Stole My heart (Owen Patrick Joyner x Reader)

A/n: Hey guys so there’s this imagine let me know if I should make a part 2? Possibly a smut? I don’t know let me know! Also let me know if I should post these on wattpad too!!!

Warnings: None

————

"Owen seriously if someone catches us I'm gonna kill you"

"No ones gonna catch us. They're filming a scene" He mumbled leaving a trail of kisses down my neck.

"That's what you said last time"

"They didn't catch us" He said pushing my shirt down my shoulder.

"Yeah but they almost did- wait. Are you? Owen" I scolded pushing him away.

"What?" He asked innocently.

"What do you mean what? The makeup department will literally kill me if I show up with another hickey. Then their gonna interrogate me like they did last time since there are limited people I see daily" I groaned.

"They're not gonna kill you y/n. Relax"

"I can't relax. Now that we landed a season 2 the chances of us getting caught are much higher now. Plus my character has such a bigger part now" I spoke pacing back and forth in the dimly lit room. Julie's room set to be exact.

"I know. But you can't let that get to you now. You did amazing the first season and your gonna kill it this season. And if we get caught then oh well"

"Oh well? Oh well. Owen I already told you I don't want anyone to know about us until-"

"Until we're sure it's not gonna effect our worth ethic. I know" He muttered sitting down on the bed. I sighed realizing he was upset. It was never my intention to date my co-star. Let alone fall in love with him. But after spending countless of hours on set and off set with him there was no denying the chemistry. And what to everyone seemed like an amazing friendship was actually something more.

"Hey, I'm sorry. I wish things could be different but-"

"But this is your first big part. I get it" he said moving to sit me on his lap.

"I'll back off. We'll just have to keep sneaking around"

"Owen-"

"No harm. No foul. If this is what I have to do to be with you I'll do it" He said kissing the spot he had previously been sucking on.

"And I'd do it again" He whispered kissing my skin once more.

"And again" Another kiss.

"And again" He spoke finally meeting my lips. The kiss last longer than the ones shared previously. It was much more passionate on both ends. The risk of getting caught high.

"Owen" I giggled as he flipped us over on the bed.

"Yes?" He questioned as his fingers made their way up my shirt.

"Baby" I moaned as his hands cupped my left boob.

"Mmm" He muttered against my lips.

"We've got to get back on set soon. I have a scene with Jer" I panted pulling away.

"Don't do it"

"Owen" I warned.

"Fine" He groaned getting off me.

"But for the record if they did know we were dating I would not give my approval for the stupid kissing scene" He said kicking the ground like a little kid. Referring to the fact that my character became Reggies love interest this season.

"Be careful there babe the jealousy is peeking through. Just be lucky he's married and they cut it down from a whole make out scene" I teased checking myself in the full length mirror.

"Yeah yeah. God the unholy things I would've done to you in that bed" He whispered in my ear as his hands explored my body.

"Don't temp me Joyner" I said a smirk making it's way onto his face.

"I'm here!" I called running onto set.

"Finally! Where were you?" Charlie asked exasperatedly standing beside Kenny who was looking at script at hand.

"We don't have time to interrogate her Charlie we've got to get this scene filmed if we wanna stick to schedule. Y/n next time be on set 5 minutes before"

"Yes Kenny. Sorry I was um was distracted. Lost track of time" I said noticing Owen had walking onto set casually going to talk to Mads and Savannah.

"Okay so this scene your gonna walk in on cue to your mark. Find Luke sitting on the couch playing his guitar. Sentimental talk. Confess your undying love for Reggie. Then Jers gonna come in tell y/c/n he loves her too. But he can't be with her because he had this girlfriend back in 95 who he never officially broke up with. Then he says screw it. You kiss. End scene"

"Oh the kiss. That's this scene?" I asked finding Owen who was deeply in conversation.

"Yeah. Is there a problem?"

"No, no I'm ready" I said not expecting to have to do this in front of my secret boyfriend right now.

I sighed going to stand on my beginning mark. I watched as Charlie did the same.

The lights dimming in the studio to replicate nightfall.

"And action!" Kenny yelled.

I opened the barn like doors walking in slowly.

"Oh Luke. I didn't know you were here sorry I'll go-"

"No. No it's okay. I was just messing around. What's up?"

"I was looking for Reggie"

"Looking for Reggie? Oh he's with Alex and Willie. He should be back soon"

"Then I'll just go. Thanks I guess"

"Wait. Can I play you something?" Charlie questioned taking a hold of my wrist.

"Um sure. Why not?" I asked sitting down next to him. I listened as he began strumming his guitar to a familiar tune. A small smile forming on my lips.

"That was great Luke. Did you write that? Maybe about someone whose name rhymes with Judy" I spoke in a teasing matter.

"No. Actually Reggie wrote it. About someone who name rhymes with yours" He said a blush forming on my face.

"Okay. I get what your saying" I said playfully rolling my eyes.

"Good. I thought I'd have to follow up with home is where my horse is" He said making me giggle.

"How could I possibly tell a ghost who died 25 years ago that I'm completely head over heels for him?"

"Maybe the same way your telling a ghost who died 25 years ago right now" Charlie said jokingly bumping my shoulder.

"Right... I just- I don't want to get rejected by a ghost. It's one thing when they're alive but if the dead doesn't want me I think that's saying something"

"Y/n, Reggies in love with you. He'd be thrilled if you showed any romantic interest in him. At least more than you already do" He teased me once again.

"Thanks Luke. I just hope he doesn't freak out on me like last time"

"Last time?"

"Yeah last time I brought up relationships in a topic he got all weird and left. So I just never did it again"

"Oh. Look y/c/n back in 95 we had a decent following and a ton of girls following after us" A strange look forming on Charlie's face.

"Okayyy" I stretched out the word.

"And Reggie. You know him he uh well he's a fl-" Charlie words were cut off.

On cue Jeremy strolled into the studio set as Charlie and I sat facing each other stiffly.

I stifled a giggle knowing this would later be edited so it'd look like Jer flashed in out of nowhere.

"Y/c/n? Luke?"

"Oh Reggie. Hi" I stood up continuing the scene.

"Hey. What are you doing here? I thought you'd be home"

"I was. Julie invited me over for a bit and I thought I'd say hi before I uh left. I though maybe we could talk for a bit"

"Oh. Okay yeah" He slightly smiled before turning to the brunette beside me.

"And what are you still doing here?" Jeremy asked looking at Charlie.

"Hey, I was just leaving man. She's all yours" Charlie smirked at us before walking off set.

Jer and I paused until his footsteps could no longer be heard before continuing.

"So um what did you want to talk about?"

"Just um stuff" I said standing still in my spot.

"What stuff?" He asked coming to stand in front of me.

"Luke. He played me your song" I said picking up the piece of paper with chicken scratch from the coffe table.

"Lifer Girl?" I finally read the title before looking up into his brown eyes.

"Uh yeah. I'm still working on the name. Did you like it?"

"I loved it. This lifer girl. She's one lucky girl. Do I know her?"

"Of course you do. Your practically the same person" he said a piece of my hair falling to the front of my face. I nervously played with my fingers as he pushed the strand behind my ears.

"Oh. Can you tell me about her?"

"Well she's funny and makes me feel happy when I'm around her. She's really smart and her grades skyrocket compared to what mine use to be. And she's beautiful, drop dead gorgeous" He whispered tilting my head up with his fingers.

For a moment I looked up into his brown eyes wishing. Longing for them to be someone else's. I felt his finger leave my chin before he turned away dramatically.

"I shouldn't"

"Shouldn't?" I asked curiously.

"I can't"

"Can't? Why not?" I questioned once more.

"Y/c/n there's something I need to tell you"

"What is it Reg?"

"Back in 1995 you know before we died. I uh-"

"You what?" I asked urging him to continue.

"I had a girlfriend and well then we died. So we never officially broke up" Jer said.

"Oh" I mumbled backing away from him.

"I get it"

"No wait y/c/-"

"No Reggie it's okay. Your still in love with her. Of course you are. God how could I be so stupid to think that you'd actually love me. Let alone like m-" My eyes widened as I felt him crash his lips into mine completely going off script. Which wasn't uncommon. But it was supposed to be a short kiss. There were lines that were missing.

Slowly I pretended to sink into the kiss. Pulling away after a couple of seconds amongst hearing the word.

"Cut!" Kenny yelled Jeremy finally letting me go.

"That was amazing! Spectacular! Great improve Jer! We're done with this scene!" He called out to us. But all I could focus on was the look plastered on Owens face. He was hurt. But not because of the kiss. But because of the fact that he couldn't do that. Not out in public anyways.

"Yeah great going Jer" I commented to the boy in front of me.

"Thanks y/n. You did great too" He said getting near me.

"But if I were you I'd go talk to your boyfriend before he bursts" He whispered in my ear leaving me wide eyed.

"H-how'd you?"

"Know? Please everyone knows. I mean you guys aren't great at hiding things. There's actually a poll between Kenny and Charlie. Whichever one of you slips up firsts. My bets on Owen" He chuckled.

"Seriously?" I asked.

"Seriously"

“Who was the first one to know"

"Sonya in makeup. The first hickey you showed up with only matched with the timeframe that you and Owen had been together. Clearly not getting lunch like you had said you were"

"That long?" I asked.

"Yup" He spoke popping his p.

"Just don't tell anyone I told you. Carolynn insisted I put you out of your misery"

"Thanks. I think" He smiled at me before walking away.

A grin began to form on my face as I made my way toward the blonde who was leaning against a wall twirling one of his drumsticks in his left hand.

"Hey. Great scene back there" He commented as I now stood in front of him.

"Thanks. You know Jers a good kisser and all but I think your better" I spoke aloud noticing Savannah's and Madison's head whipping towards us.

"What?" He asked making sure he heard right.

"You heard me Joyner" I spoke giggling at his shocked reaction.

"Now shut up and kiss me would you?" He tilted his head to be extra sure. Something I adored about him.

He always wanted to make sure I was certain about these things. I simply nodded feeling his arms wrap around me bringing his lips to meet mine.

I smiled into the kiss as he turned us around pushing me up against the wall. I giggled upon hearing clapping around us from the cast and crew.

"Finally!" I heard Savannah shout.

"Keep it PG kids!" Kenny shouted laughter following.

"You owe me 20 Gillespie!" He yelled again followed by a groan by presumably Charlie. I finally pulled away first leaving Owen in shock.

"I'm gonna need you to come back to reality lover boy" I said rubbing my thumb against his cheek.

"What made you change your mind?" He asked keeping a tight hold on my waist.

"Let's just say you have Carolynn to thank for that. Apparently everyone knew"

"What? How?"

"I guess we weren't as good at keeping a secret as we thought"

"How long?"

"First hickey"

“That long?"

"That's what I said" I laughed as he pressed a kiss to my forehead.

"You two are so cute"

"Thanks Mads" I smiled at the girl.

Finally able to wrap my arms around the boy who had stolen my heart without any warning.

#owen joyner #owen patrick joyner #julie and the phantoms #the other side of hollywood #Charlie Gillespie #Jeremy shada #alex jatp #reggie jatp #luke jatp #Luke Patterson #Julie Molina #Flynn JATP #Madison Reyes #jadah marie

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bqstqnbruin · 4 years

Text

I hate you so much it makes me sick, it even makes me rhyme

No one is allowed to get mad that I didn’t finish the reading and finished this instead shhhhh (I read like half of it and then the adhd kicked in) but here we are with another part.

HUGE shoutout to my girl @tkachuk197 for reading through the part I was struggling with. She said it was good, so I’m taking her word for it!

Hope you like it!

Read the whole series: I hate the way you talk to me and the way you cut your hair // I hate the way you drive my car // I hate it when you stare // I hate your big dumb combat boots and the way you read my mind // I hate you so much it makes me sick, it even makes me rhyme // I hate the way you’re always right // I hate it when you lie // I hate it when you make me laugh, even worse when you make me cry // I hate it when you’re not around, and the fact that you didn’t call // But mostly I hate the way I don’t hate you, not even close, not even a little bit, not even at all

_________________________

“I can’t even look at you right now.”

“You don’t mean that.”

-----------------------

You wake up, disoriented and confused as to where you were. You weren’t in your own room, you knew that; the decorations were different, and it definitely wasn’t your bed you were lying in. You feel a strong arm wrapped around you, a hard body pressed against your bare skin as your legs were tangled up in each others. You turn over ever so carefully to see Matthew still asleep, a soft snore escaping from his slightly parted lips as the memories of the night before came flooding back to you. You slept with Matthew.

You.

And Matthew.

Slept together.

Multiple times. You didn’t even remember how many times you did.

You try to untangle your legs from his without waking him up. His eyes flutter open, meaning you failed, but seeing the smile on his face once he saw you made any doubt you had about the last night melt away. Maybe Evelina was right.

“God, you are beautiful,” his raspy voice taking your breath away as he sits up next to you. He takes your chin between his thumb and forefinger, bringing his lips to yours for a soft, sweet kiss. He pulls away, a soft smile on his face. He takes in a deep, slow breath before letting out, “I can’t believe last night finally happened.”

“Finally?” you ask him.

He lets out a laugh, his hand moving it’s way to the back of your head, tangling in your hair. He puts his forehead to yours, his lips ghosting yours, “You had to know I’ve been wanting this for ages.”

Evelina was right. “I really didn’t,” you admit.

“And yet,” he whispers, “you’re still the smartest person I know.”

You’re the one to kiss him this time. You wouldn’t change anything about the night before, but would you be willing to let it happen again? “Can I use your bathroom and shower?” you ask him.

“Yeah, of course, do you need anything?”

“A shirt for when I get out?” you ask him, starting to get out of bed. Do you try to keep yourself covered for as long as possible? Actually, what was the point? He had already seen your entire body last night. You get up, leaving the sheets behind. Your back was to him, but judging by the sharp inhale immediately followed by him muttering “fuck” under his breath, he couldn’t take his eyes off you as you walked to his bathroom.

You turn on his shower, letting it heat up as he finds you a shirt. Standing in the door, you watch him shuffle through his drawers. He pulls one out, walking over to hand it to you. You take it from him, both of you standing there for a moment, eyes lingering on the others body. “You could get in with me,” you say, a smirk on your face.

His eyes go wide, a smile on his face. “You want that?”

You don’t answer him. Instead, you bite your lip, dropping the t-shirt on the floor and taking him by the hand. Walking backwards to the running shower, your plant your lips on his. You try not to stumble around until he lifts you up, your legs wrapping around his waist. You feel the hot water hitting your back immediately, yelling by the sudden shock of the heat.

“Too hot?” he asks, through laughter, putting you down and reaching around you to fix the temperature. You kiss his neck, feeling him swallow hard as your lips connected to his skin. He lets out a moan as you work your way back up to his lips, “You know just how to make me feel great, don’t you,” he says, his hands on the small of your back pressing your body against his.

“I think,” you say between kisses, “we actually need to shower. We’re kind of gross.”

He laughs, reaching behind you again to grab his shampoo. The two of you go about your business, your mind racing as you watched the water fall down his body. He turns you around, his soap now in his hands as he starts washing your back. “Tell me something,” he whispers into your ear, pressing a kiss against your neck.

You try to wrack your brian, fighting from going numb by his hands washing your body. “You know the Mad Hatter from Alice in Wonderland?” you ask him as he turns you around to face him, handing you the soap so you can do the same to him. He smiles and nods, kissing you before letting you continue. You put the soap in your hands, rubbing his shoulders, “Well, the idea comes from the term ‘mad as a hatter.’ When people used to make hats, before knowing the dancers of the element, they would use a lot of elemental liquid mercury. What they didn’t know is that mercury can bind to your blood cells.”

You let the soap rinse off his back, placing a kiss between his shoulder blades as you hear a moan escape his lips. He turns around not letting you finish, kissing your neck. “It binds to hemoglobin the same way that oxygen does,” you explain, feeling him sucking on your neck as your mind flashes back to the day with him at the liquor store. “The difference is that the bond between oxygen and the blood cell is weak enough that it can break, allowing for the cell to travel through the body and continuously delivering oxygen. Mercury is so heavy and forms such a strong bond that it doesn’t break off, stopping the transport of oxygen.”

“And what?” he says, his forehead pressed against yours.

“They go crazy because of lack of oxygen. Hence being mad as a hatter.”

His kisses you again, reaching behind you to turn off the water. “Sounds like you’re my mercury, then.”

You roll your eyes, kissing him again and stepping out of the shower. He follows suit, both of you just getting ready at your own pace. Throwing the t-shirt on, you were surprised by how big it felt on you. Matthew was bigger than you for sure, but not so much bigger that his shirt should be fitting like a dress on you. You hear him mutter something under his breath, turning around to see him staring at you in his clothes.

You smile and shake your head, brushing your hair out. “If I knew how good your clothes looked on me, I would have started giving you stuff ages ago,” he says, his hands snaking their way around your waist, the two of you just standing there.

“You’re being awfully lovely lately,” you tease him, wiggling free from him. “Any chance we can make or order food?”

He takes your hand to lead you out of his room. Walking to his living room, you can hear voices coming from somewhere. You don’t remember turning on the TV at any point in the night, so what was it.

“Took you long enough to come out of there,” you hear Evelina say, Matthew immediately dropping your hand at the sight of her and Elias sitting on his couch, already surrounded by food.

“What are you doing here?” you ask Ev, sitting down next to her, suddenly very aware of the fact that you were only wearing Matthew’s shirt in front of her and Elias.

“I forgot Elias has the spare key,” Matthew says to you before turning to his friend, “But you’re supposed to use it for emergencies, dude.”

Elias shrugs, handing Matthew a container, “Ev texted me last night when Y/N wouldn’t answer her. Your location on ‘find my friends’ said you were here.”

“Yeah, he said he saw you two leave together last night, so it would make sense that you came here with him,” Evelina explains. “And it’s not like you use our key for emergencies, you just barge in,” she adds, earning a scowl from Matthew.

“So you came here to find out?” you ask her, a little annoyed by the intrusion.

“How was I supposed to know you weren’t dead? If you die, I can’t afford rent,” Evelina argues. You can’t help but laugh, even though you knew it was true. You start to play with the collar of the shirt when you see Evelina’s eye’s go wide. “Oh, my god!” she shrieks, grabbing the bag next to her, taking you by the hand and dragging you back to Matthew’s bedroom.

“Jesus, you’re going to rip my arm out, what the hell?”

“You slept with each other!” she practically screams.

“Can you not scream about that? How could you tell?” you hiss at her, covering her mouth.

Pushing your hand out of the way, she starts again, “You always play with your shirt collar after you’ve slept with someone, it’s your tell. I know Elias and I have been trying to get you two together but this went from zero to a hundred way too fast for two people ‘not in love,’” her voice turning to a mocking tone at the end.

“Elias was in on it?” you ask her, making the connection back to last night, “That’s what the look was for when we left.”

“What? Nevermind. I thought you didn’t love him.”

“You don’t have to be in love with a boy to fuck him,” you counter, trying to figure out whether or not you were lying. “At most I tolerate him. I like him. As a friend. It’s friends with benefits,” you ramble.

She rolls her eyes at you, clearly unamused by your blatant denial, “It’s amazing how dumb you are. Babe, all you’re wearing is his shirt, and nothing else. We hear the shower turn on and turn off only once, only long enough for one shower and both of you have wet hair, which means you had to be in there together, and clearly,” she says, pointing at the mess that was his bed, “More than just sleeping happened in there. You don’t do that with just anyone. You didn’t sleep with your first boyfriend until you had been together for nearly a year. I’m pretty sure you’ve never given a hickey or gotten one for that matter until you came home from the liquor store. Why are you denying this so much?”

You close your eyes and take in a deep breath. She was right about almost everything. “Can we just leave it at liking him. I’m not in love with him.”

She throws her hands up in surrender, shaking her head and reaching for the bag, “Whatever,” she shoves the bag in your chest, “I brought you a change of clothes. At least be wearing fucking underwear when you get home. I’m leaving.”

She doesn’t look in your direction as she leaves the bedroom. “Ev, wait,” you call after her. You knew she was mad at you. She was obviously annoyed with you for the constant denial. She slams the door just as you reach it, feeling Matthew and Elias’s eyes on you. You lean your back against the door, trying to fight back tears over your best friend storming out on you, your head against the door looking up at the ceiling.

“Hey,” Matthew comes up to you, rubbing your arms, “What just happened?”

“She’s just mad at me for, um,” you start, not making eye contact with Matthew as you try to figure out what to tell him. “Not telling her where I was last night.”

“Shouldn’t you go after her?” he asks, concerned that you were clearly upset about this and not doing the best at showing it.

You run your tongue along your top teeth, shaking your head, “Nah. We’ll work it out when we’re both home. Hey, um,” you say, swallowing back tears, “She brought me a change of clothes and some of my stuff, so I’m going to go change, ok?” He nods, letting you slip past him, wiping a tear away from your cheek as you shut yourself in his room.

“I have never seen you this soft for a girl before,” Elias says.

“What are you talking about?” Matthew says, practically throwing himself on the couch with the food they had brought.

“Like, Evelina’s been trying to tell me that you’re in love with Y/N, so we’ve been trying to get you two together, but I didn’t really believe her until I saw you be soft for her.”

Matthew knew Evelina had a plan, but how was Elias even involved, “And what have you done to get us together?”

He gives Matthew the same annoyed look Evelina gives him when he’s asked a dumb question. “I was flirting with her right in front of you and you short circuited.”

Matthew things about last night, watching Elias trying to get you to dance with him. “Fuck you, man.”

He throws his hands up in surrender, a smirk on his face, “Hey, it worked, didn’t it. You should be thanking me.” Matthew rolls his eyes at him. He really didn’t need his teammates flirting with you to get him to want to be with you.

“It would have happened eventually.”

“You’ve been flirting with her since the day you met. It took me flirting with her to get you two together.”

Matthew stops for a minute. Are you two ‘together?’ He had no idea what last night meant to you. He knew what it meant to him, but to you, it could have meant anything. “I don’t know if we are.” He takes a bite of the food, starting down at the remains in the container and pushing it around with his fork. He wanted to be with you, but he couldn’t do that if you weren’t up for it, too.

Elias shrugs, knowing that whatever he said Matthew would either detest and ignore or go run into the bedroom and do right now. “You could always ask her out on a real date. Not some event with all the guys that leads to you fucking all night.” Matthew nearly chokes on the last bite of food when he hears Elias say that. “I know how you act after you get laid. You’re a little quiet, a little lovey,” he says, adding a little shoulder shimmy at the word ‘lovey.’ He gets up, grabbing his keys from underneath all the napkins and utensils that littered the half eaten breakfast they had brought, “Whatever you do, don’t hurt her. Evelina will have me kill you and I really don’t want to have to hide your body. Have fun, be safe.”

Elias leaves him there sitting on the couch. He knew that Evelina told you to have ten things that you hated about him that you would have to ask him out, but what if he asked you out before you completed the list? Would you have to say no? Or worse: would you want to say no?

He hears you come out of his room, now changed into a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt. “Hey, I think I’m gonna get going,” you tell him, scooping up the dress that was still on the floor from last night.

“Let me get my keys, I’ll give you a ride,” he says, shuffling the containers around to try to find them buried under there. He could deal with that stuff later. “Let’s go,” he says, waving his key ring in the air.

He extends his hand out for you to lead you down to his car. You’re hesitant to take it, but you do anyway, your fingers intertwining with his. It was weird how well your hands fit together, how well all of you fit together. You never would have thought that you would.

The two of you ride to your place in silence, neither of you sure what to say. He pulls in front of your building, but you don’t want to get out. You don’t want to leave him even though you know you need to talk to Evelina. You let out a sigh, “I don’t want to have to fight with her.”

“If it’s just about being away last night then I’ll just text her and say it’s my fault,” he says, reaching over and taking your hand.

“That’s sweet,” you tell him as he kisses your hand, “but it’s fine. It’s between us, we’ll work it out, we always do.”

He just nods, feeling himself getting nervous. “What are you doing tomorrow night?” he asks you, figuring it was now or never.

You form a thin line with your lips, shaking your head, “I don’t know. Right now nothing, why?”

He swallows hard, getting worried that his nerves would get the best of him. Why was he so nervous about this? You just spent the night with each other, you’ve been together before plenty of times. “I was,” he starts, his voice obviously shaking. You look at him, concerned. This wasn’t like him. He normally had more confidence in his pinky than some people had in their entire body. “I was wondering if you would let me take you out? On a date? A real date?”

Would this go against the deal you have with Evelina? Actually, it only would if you couldn’t come up with ten things and then didn’t ask him out at the end of the month. What was the harm of one date. “Yeah, Matty, I would love to.”

He smiles, taking your face in his hands and planting one more kiss on you before you know you have to get out of his car. “I l-” he starts to say, stopping himself, “I’ll see you tomorrow. For our date.”

“For our date,” you repeat, trying to properly process the words. You get out of his car and head up to your place. You were going on a date with Matthew Tkachuk. You were giddy, and you couldn’t wait to tell Evelina about it.

Except you and Evelina had to hash other things out first, your joy and excitement turning to fear and dread over having to fight with her. You two almost never had real fights, so you had no idea what this was going to entail. You get to your apartment, standing outside your door. Finally working up the nerve to go inside, you find Evelina sitting on the couch watching something on TV. “Hey,” you say, closing the door behind you.

“Hi,” she says, not taking her eyes off the screen.

“So?” you say, sitting down next to her. “Can we talk about what happened at Matthew’s?”

“Why?” she asks, turning off the TV, irritation dripping in her tone. “No matter what I tell you about you and Matthew you deny.”

“Ev, you keep forcing the idea of loving him down my throat,” you tell her, trying not to raise your voice, “I understand that you’re rooting for us to be together but it’s just putting pressure on me and I can’t handle it.”

She looks down at her hands in her lap, her lips pursed, “You just,” she says, taking a deep breath, “For as long as I have known you, you’ve been talking about how excited you were to find the guy who would love you more than anything, for everything you are. I think you already know him. It’s Matthew.”

“And I get that. I’m trying to work out my feelings for him on my own, Ev. I love that you’re trying to look out for me, but at a certain point, you constantly telling me that I’m in love with him when I’m confused isn’t helping. Do you know how nervous I’ve been to tell you about last night? I was thinking about you more than I was thinking about him,” you tell her, both of you laughing.

“Please tell me you didn’t yell my name instead of his at any point,” she jokes, both of you cringing.

“I have a feeling Matthew would have had a lot of questions about that if I did.” You look at your best friend, knowing she’s just looking out for her, “Can you please just go a little easier on the whole, ‘I love Matthew thing?’”

“You just have to let me know when you figure it out,” she says, pulling you in for a hug.

“You’ll probably know before he does.”

She pulls away, you surprisingly shocked that this turned out easier than you thought it would be. “So, how was it?” she asks, a devilish grin on her face.

You laugh again, not shocked that she would ask something about it. You can feel the heat rushing to your cheeks as you think about the night before. “It was great. He’s taking me out tomorrow night.”

Her jaw drops, “On a date?” she squeals, jumping up and down on the couch. You spend the rest of the afternoon recounting as much as you wanted about the previous night to her. Your phone buzzes with texts from Matthew, asking you how your conversation with Evelina went.

You spend the rest of the day on the couch with your roommate, turning on the game to watch Matthew and the guys play. At one point between periods, he sends you a rare ‘during game’ text.

‘Fuck me’ he sends, referencing a bad penatly he took that luckily didn’t result in anything for the other team.

‘Tell me when, tell me where, any time, and I’m there,’ you send back, showing Evelina before you hit send. He responds back immediately, with just the red emoji that has it’s tongue sticking out, with the water droplet by it’s eye.

“You’re rhyming? This boy has you rhyming?” she asks. You could tell she wanted to say more about it, but you were thankful she didn’t. The game ends, the boys winning in overtime, thank god. “Oh, what about the list?”

You look at her, not even sure if the list was still in the fridge when you threw it in there the other day. You meant to take it out, but you know for sure that you never did. “What about it?”

“You’re going on a date with him. I think that means you’re dating him, even if he isn’t your boyfriend. Do you still want to finish it?”

You sit there and think for a moment, staring blankly at Gio giving an interview after the game. If it weren’t for the list, would you even be in this position right now? Would you be thinking about Matthew in any way other than as your friend? “Yeah, I think I do,” you tell her, making a mental note to pull it out of the fridge or just start a new one.

“Really?” she asks, shocked, “The point of it is that you’re writing out the things you hate about him. Why would you want to keep that going if you’re going out with him?”

“You said it was to prove that I didn’t love him. I still need to figure out if that’s true.”

Her face drops, obviously upset that it seems like you were taking three steps back from the step forward you had taken the night before. The list just let you deny your feelings for him, she thought. But what could she do to stop you from finishing it? “Do you want to add anything to it?”

“If we can find it, yeah,” you say, confusion washing over her face. “It might be in the fridge because he almost saw it when he was over the other day,” you explain.

“What do you want to add?”

Even though you know it’s supposed to be on your ‘hate list,’ you can’t help but smile when you tell her, “The way he makes me rhyme.”

#matthew tkachuk #matthew tkachuk imagines #calgary flames #calgary flames imagine #flames #flames imagine #nhl #nhl imagine #hockey #hockey imagine

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